TITLE: Oh, Sweet Thing
SPOILERS: None - it's all pretty AU now, isn't it?
DISCLAIMER: All characters are the sole creation and property of Aaron Sorkin. No copyright infringement is intended.
SUMMARY: Sam gives Josh something he's always wanted, and teaches him a lesson while he's at it.
ARCHIVE: Lists may take. Others, just please let me know where.
FEEDBACK: Always welcome at email@example.com
THANKS TO: amerella, 'natch. And Bren, for weighing in on this two - uh, and a half? - months ago, then not fussing at me to post it!
NOTES: 'Oh, Sweet Thing', and everything else is here: http://subtractions.homestead.com/
Oh, Sweet Thing by Abigale
At some point, Sam stopped talking dirty to me. How's that for a clue?
And I must have sounded like a moron, lying there moaning 'harder, harder, fuck yes, yes!' and getting absolutely nothing back.
That carefully arranged, impassive face. Should have been my second clue; only I missed that too.
"Okay, then." Third one's a charm.
"What do you mean 'okay then', Sam? I didn't think we got to 'okay then' yet," I observed, craning my neck a little, checking to make sure. Maybe I missed it.
"I'll bring you a cloth," he tells me, motioning for me to stay where I am. Thanks anyway, I don't think that'll be necessary.
I prop myself up on my elbows and watch him disappear into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. I've scrambled into some boxers - his, tossed at the foot of the bed - and am just getting to my feet when he reappears. I watch in silence as he opens and closes a few drawers, and before I register what I'm looking at, he's dressed. Socks, even.
"Are you going somewhere?" Even in my slightly confused and somewhat frustrated state, I can tell this isn't lounge wear. He's got on black slacks and a dark purple - eggplant, Donna tells me - polo, and he's combed his hair. "You're leaving?" I try again.
"I have to go," is the answer I get, which I've noticed isn't really an answer at all.
He stands directly in front of me, and raises his eyebrows in that questioning way of his, and asks if I want him to bring anything back. I'm still confused and, as I mentioned, frustrated, so I ask him if he's even coming back.
I really was expecting an argument; Sam getting defensive or prickly. But instead he throws me off once again by smiling and telling me, of course he's coming back.
And he'll bring me a surprise.
Just the fact that he says he's coming back is surprise enough for me, at this point. After I hear the door close, I pull on a pair of my loosest jeans, and go foraging for something to eat. Nothing looks good, nothing is tempting me, and it takes me thirty minutes to realize that the tight, snaky feeling I thought was from an empty stomach was actually from another unfulfilled part of my anatomy, so I quickly take care of that, and then relax with a basketball game.
Where the hell is Sam?
I'm tempted to call his cell, or call the office, or call his apartment, but I stopped being a fifteen year old girl when I was nineteen; so I sit there and watch these tattooed men thunder up and down the court until I'm drowsy and horny again, and wonder, if something happens to Sam, will anyone know to call me? Would he even want them to?
There's no answer at his apartment - I don't leave a message. And no one has seen him at the White House. He has caller id on his cell, so I know if I call I can't just hang up when he answers, not that I would do that. But the thought did cross my mind, so I don't call. I just sit there with a vague feeling of unease and keep wondering; where the hell is Sam?
It's after 8 o'clock when I hear the key in the lock, and I've buried myself under a slew of paperwork on the sofa, so I don't attempt to get up. When Sam blithely walks into the room and brushes a dry kiss across my cheek and walks into the kitchen, I continue to sit there blinking stupidly.
He comes back with some grapes. I notice he's looking directly at me and it occurs to me, that's not what someone would do if they were trying to hide something, so I ask him outright, "What did you bring me?" I thought I was going to ask him why he left me sprawled on the bed like a sundial, or where the hell he'd been. But I want my surprise first.
Because it's exactly what I hoped it would be. Sam's hot tongue digging at the roof of my mouth, his hands holding my head back against the sofa so I can't offer any resistance. The sound of the crumpling paper around me almost drowns out the wet sound of his lips smacking against mine. And the stiff plastic cover of a binder is no competition for his hard-on, biting into my stomach as he moves over me until he's towering above.
I can't pull back; I'm already pressed against the back of the sofa, so I push against him just enough to look up into startling blue eyes and I see no guile there, no insincerity at all. And for some reason, that just bakes my cake.
When he's done laughing at my ill-worded declaration, he sits back on the coffee table and asks me what the hell that means, and why I said it.
"You leave me here all afternoon, Sam! No call, no explanation. I don't know where you are or who you're with. And that just.... I've been sitting here baking in my own - I don't know what the fuck it means!" I wail. "Do you think you can waltz back in here and smear yourself all over me like - Okay, I don't know where I'm going with that either. What makes you think you can just - "
Obviously, something I said or did makes him think he can, because he does. It takes all of twenty seconds to make it into the bedroom and resume the position we were in when Sam decided to take off. It takes another agonizing minute to get our clothes off, and then I'm staring at the tuft of dark curls billowing around his already remarkable erection as he kneels over me.
I take him firmly in my hand and squeeze tightly. Just a quick tug to remind him who's in charge, which is pointless, because Sam knows damn well that he's completely in charge here.
His mouth falls open a millimeter, and he sucks in a breath, then moves his hips to the motion of my hand. From my position on my back I have a phenomenal view of his pendulous balls, swinging heavily under my hand. I want nothing, except to suck them into my mouth, so I place my other hand on Sam's hard, even stomach and unceremoniously push him down.
Flipping one leg over my shoulder hurts him a little, but after I apologize meekly, I dive in like a gull over the fertile ocean. Sucking hard, swirling my tongue around the slippery sac, I hum Hail To The Chief to get a little vibration going, and when Sam starts to dig his heel into my back I can't help but think proudly to myself that I give awesome head.
I use my teeth to pull at his skin until he begs me to stop, only it's more of a grunted whine, and his leg hits the bed with a blanket-muffled thud. As retribution, he squirms around until he can reach down and pull me up by the leash all men come equipped with until I'm straddling him, knees in his armpits, both palms against the top of the headboard for support. His hands come up behind me, pulling me open, squeezing me tightly, rocking me forward, pushing me back, fingers prodding, excited tongue dancing....
Sam gives awesome head too. That mouth of his.
I love the roughness of it, the constant motion, like I'm too hot for him to stop in one place for too long. He makes some noise, and just knowing it's coming from him, whatever it might mean, thrills me. His lips slide over me, and I pull back a little to get a better angle. I like to watch myself disappear into his mouth, then emerge slick with his spit, Sam snapping at me like I'm bait.
I'm not crazy about the idea of this ending so soon, but I can't exactly stop, either. I'm tempted to tell him to slow down, but as I'm trying to form the words he starts using his hands to pluck at my stiff nipples, and that's pretty much that.
I'm so deep, I can feel Sam's throat constrict around me as he swallows greedily, instinctively, and I grow dizzy, and insanely believe that I'm still coming when I slide out of his mouth. Collapsing across the bed, I've fallen as far as I can get from Sam, and I whimper from the almost complete loss of contact. My eyes are clenched shut against the spinning room, so I only feel Sam creep up alongside me, his hands like a feather, skimming over my goose bumps.
I ask him to give me a second, but Sam fucking *never* listens to me anymore, and he's licking at my navel like it's filled with honey. His hair is short, not much there for me to run my fingers through. I grab what I can and try to pull him up so I can kiss him.
"I don't want to," he tells me petulantly.
"You - you don't want to kiss me?" But I want to kiss him, now more than ever. For the second time tonight, I push Sam down on the bed, completely deluding myself that I'm in control.
I inform him that I am indeed the one in control, and take the kiss I've been craving. But when he layers his hand over mine, suggesting that I wrap it around him and start pumping, I don't hesitate even an instant. I am so not in control....
When I'm this close to ripping his climax out of him, he makes a sudden grab for me, deftly snatching hold just in time to pull me along with him. I'm screaming his name, he's screaming obscenities, and the next thing I know my head is resting on his stomach because I can't hold it up another second. I watch his chest rise and fall rhythmically, a soft sheen of sweat sprinkled across him.
My hand goes to the soft, wet, warm place between his legs, and I burrow in until I'm completely fastened to him. My heart is thumping hard in my chest, in my neck, and I'm just to the point of regulating my breathing when he slides a familiar hand down my back, over the swell of my ass. He's also looking for someplace to fasten himself.
"Sam," I grunt, peeling off a pillowcase, which I use to wipe us clean. "Do you know how old I was the last time I did that three times in one day?"
"I count two."
No, it was - "Um. You, you weren't here for one of them," I ruefully inform him. This doesn't faze him, only earns me a satisfied smirk.
"I have some catching up to do," he observes. "Are we going for records here?"
I sputter slightly, thinking about what that implies. "Uh," I counter eloquently. "That depends. What's your record?" I really don't want to know.
He smiles at me, as sweet as sassafras, then mouths a number and I choke. "No, I don't think we'll be doing *that* tonight," I say emphatically. But then he does something that gets my attention. Sam's dragging his fingers up and down the length of his half-erection. Slowly, purposely, which causes me to gulp audibly. This is completely unfair. I can't believe he'd stoop so low.
"Sam." It's a reproach. "Let me...."
He slaps my hand away with a bit more adamancy than I would have expected.
"Sam," I try again. "Let *me.*"
Sam pulls himself away from me, those blue eyes of his watching me steadily. He ends up in a reclining position against the pillows, one hand resting against the valley at the top of his thigh, the other going right back to work, a simple, single finger swirling over the very tip of his head. The glistening beads I see seeping out disappear rapidly under his touch.
Sam knows. His eyes don't falter from mine. He knows.
The only sound he makes is a hiss when he inhales sharply every third breath or so. I'm the one making a racket to wake the dead. Groans and moans and pleas of every sort. This is the one thing I love most... and Sam damn well knows it. I've begged and cajoled, I even bribed him once; or, offered to bribe him. He didn't take it. This one sweet thing. Yes, Sam knows.
So, the one time, the first time in months that he's even willing to consider doing this for me, it's the one time I'm already through. I'm 41 years old, and I'm through.
Only, I'm so ready it's starting to hurt.
"That's just not fair," I attempt weakly. "I'm through."
Sam blinks at me innocently as his other hand begins to massage through the soft tissue at his base, fingers digging into the hard muscle that I know sooo intimately. When he bends a leg, bringing his ankle toward his thigh, spreading his legs slightly, I pounce.
"Ah, ah, ah," he cautions, quickly bringing his hands up, palms facing out. Wagging a still slick finger back and forth at me. "Stay. Sit."
Oh, god. I fall back on my ass, and can only imagine what my face looks like. I know what the rest of me looks like, I can feel the heat spreading through me like a rising thermometer. I'm flushed and sweating and, to my utter surprise and everlasting delight... getting hard again.
The salty finger Sam was waving at me finds its way to his mouth, where he licks at it slowly, his eyes continuing their challenge. Like he thinks I'm gonna keep looking at his face, when his other hand has gone back to palming and squeezing his balls. I can just imagine what they feel like, as I watch him grind his hand against them.
Sam seems so uncharacteristically at ease right now. As many times as we've talked about our fantasies together, in truth, we've never explored all that much beyond our current boarders. It was after a particularly alcohol-aided night that I confessed to him what I fantasized about the most; Sam, displaying himself to me just this way, masturbating with me as only an observer. It's what I asked for on my birthday.
His first reaction was boyish discomfort. He blushed quietly, and looked miserable for a few minutes. I thought I saw him suck his bottom lip into his mouth. But all that was quickly replaced by a bold and drunken attempt to comply. Unfortunately, at that point, there was more vodka running through his veins than healthy red blood cells, so he wasn't able to get very far. Since then I've mentioned it a few times, hoping to entice him into acting out my idea of the most erotic thing imaginable. But it only happened once, and honestly, I think the intensity of my reaction scared him a little.
And at the moment, I'm completely rethinking my game plan. I'm not sure how long I'm gonna be able to sit by as a non-participant in this incredible exhibition. I may be in way over my head.
Now Sam's hand is veering off a little in another direction. Higher up his shaft, and for a split second I catch a glimmer of distress. I see my opening, and start to move forward again, ready to lend a helping tongue to the proceedings.
"No." He stops me with a husky word. "In the drawer." His eyes cut to the bedside table, and I scamper over to it.
"Can I at least help?" I ask in what I immediately recognize as a whine. A Josh Lyman characteristic I'm not particularly proud of.
He's slowly shaking his head at me, but at least Sam has the decency to offer me some pity. "Sorry."
I watch in sheer agony as he drizzles some silky liquid into his hand, then snaps the lid shut with his mouth and tosses the bottle back to me. Rubbing his palms together unhurriedly, Sam settles back against the pillows once more and directs me with his eyebrows to scoot away from him.
I'm beginning to feel a little deranged here. I know I'm staring worshipfully, but I can't help that. I think - I'm starting to get this now - I think that's Sam's point.
My own hardening cock is dancing against my thigh, and I'm not too sure what the proper etiquette is. Am I allowed to do something about that? Am I just supposed to watch? Sam's sitting there brazenly milking himself just for me, and *I'm* suddenly feeling shy and unsure.
His eyes are still locked on mine ferociously, so I allow my hand to sweep across myself a few times, gauging his reaction watchfully. Sam smiles that warm smile of his, and allows his gaze to drop to my hand for a second. I see the beginning of a slight furrow forming, so I snatch my hand away before there's time for it to turn into a full-blown frown.
So, apparently, Sam is on his own here.
I lean back, get comfortable, graze my toes over his foot lightly, letting him know I've completely surrendered to the conclusion that this is all Sam's show.
What a show.... Sam's running his open hand along the full length of his now considerable cock, up and down, twisting his wrist a little to cover every inch of exposed skin. His other hand is mapping out first his stomach, pausing every so often to dig his fingers in here or there, then moving over his nipples, which I watch with wonder and longing as they harden and darken under his touch. He strokes his throat, then sweeps his hand down his body again....
He's trying valiantly to maintain eye contact, but I can see his resolve slowly erode. It's as if all his concentration is on what his hands are doing, there's precious little left to keep his eyes focused or, occasionally, even open.
I can hear his breathing become labored, see his amazing chest rise and fall rapidly, and it suddenly occurs to me that Sam really wouldn't be doing this if he wasn't learning to get into it himself. This pleases me to no end. 'Cause if he likes it, there's always the possibility that I can more easily convince him to do it again, maybe if I just -
"Josh," he puffs suddenly, eyes startlingly dilated, pointedly leveled on me. "Are you paying attention?"
Embarrassed beyond belief at allowing my mind to drift at such a ridiculously inopportune moment, all I can do is lie. "God yes, Sam. Are you kidding? How could you think I'd - "
"Shut. Up." And he rests his head on the pillows, clearly needing to regain his concentration.
I'm completely fixated on him now. I swear silently that I won't drift even a centimeter away, body or mind. An abrupt intake of breath from him brings his head forward again, and I see from his hazy expression that he's quickly recouped any ground he may have lost when he was forced to chide me a moment ago.
He's become more methodical, his strong grip working rhythmically, his other hand joining it, sliding under himself, getting lost in there for a moment; around his tightening testicles; tangling in the thatch of dark hair I want to bury my nose in.
He rakes at his powerful thigh with a fingernail. I can see the initial white mark start to blaze red, and I imagine my lips wetting it, then running my tongue over the welt. His hips come off the bed slightly, offering more access to his dark opening, and I hear my moan join his in the quiet room. The tempo of his right hand quickening, his left brutally pulling on his now taut sacs, head thrown back against the pillows.
Somewhere along the way, my own hand has found it's purpose in life, and since Sam hasn't felt the need to chastise me again, I'm matching my strokes to him nearly unconsciously.
I know that sound, the low growl he makes when he's so close. Impatient, yet still trying to hold back. Suddenly, he almost violently bends his cock up, trapping it against his tight stomach and I can only look on in awe as his back arches once, twice, his head dips low before smashing back again against the pillow. And then Sam roars ferociously, which pretty much sends me into orbit. A protective hand over his gleaming glans fills with milky fluid, and I watch him grunt a few more times, shuddering to a halt a moment after I do.
"Done!" Sam pants triumphantly.
I'm still incapable of speech, my own climax so powerful, I think I may have given birth to a new solar system somewhere. When I finally blink enough times to regain the ability to see clearly, I spy Sam sitting slack-limbed against the pillows, a fresh glow to his cheeks and chest, a lazy, drugged, crooked smile barely formed on his lips, and I somehow harness all the energy in my newly created universe to crawl over to him.
I want to ask him if he's alright, because he really looks pretty wiped out, and I only now realize just what he's done for me, how much he must love me to have done this; this one thing I wanted most, this one thing he's always shyly resisted. "Are you - ?" Before I can articulate my concern, he smiles at me sweetly.
"I'm done," he says, and opens his arms to me.
I climb over him, and settle nicely against his scorching body, brushing his damp hair away, inhaling deeply. "Stating the obvious there, aren't you? I think the give-away was the copious amounts of - " I stop, listening. His heart rate is alarmingly fast, and I wait anxiously for it to slow before I begin to relax completely. Peppering him with small, easy kisses leads to longer, deeper ones. His arms, wrapped protectively around me, makes it seem like he's reaching through my skin to caress every jangling nerve in my body.
Reluctantly rising out of his arms, I snatch the pillowcase again, and begin to mop up our combined stickiness, taking great care around the most sensitive parts of him, adding tender, soothing kisses where needed. In my estimation, they're needed on every inch of his delicious body, especially his mouth, which I fairly devour while mumbling my sincere thanks against his lips. Tossing the sodden pillowcase away from the bed, I sit back and allow my eyes to linger over him admiringly.
The way he's sitting, his abdominal muscles are bunched and rippled and screaming at me to run my hand over them, but before I can, he gets up and walks into the bathroom.
"So, now that you got whatever *that* was out of your system, are you going to tell me where you went earlier? And... and *why?*" I call to him.
As he comes out of the bathroom with a wet washcloth, Sam's looking less cocky than he was when he had his dick in his hand and was driving me beyond my limits of sanity.
"I, um, I went to a bar," he says plainly enough, handing me the cloth, climbing back onto the bed. "Watched the game." His eyes slide away from me.
He went to a bar. "This is the same game I was watching here in the comfort of our own home?"
"Your home," he corrects. And now I'm seeing a faint glimpse of the pissy Sam I occasionally used to chafe against during the campaign.
" 'Kay. Technically."
And that's when he nods his head and decides to tell me. "You've been taking me for granted. I wanted to see what would happen if I left." He states it so casually, I wonder what the fuss is all about. And then I remember to contradict him.
"I have not! I would never - "
He's shaking his head slightly, obviously with a great deal of compassion for me, and sighs. "Josh. You have totally taken me for granted. You assume I'll be here every night. You don't even ask me anymore. You reach for me in bed like... well, you don't even ask anymore!"
For the first time I see a little something in his eyes, like quiet disappointment. I'm trying to think fast, line up my arguments so I'm ready for his next salvo. Nothing could prepare me for what he says next.
"If you're ready to walk away, you need to tell me."
Ready to walk where? That's my first reaction, and I look behind me to see where I'm supposed to go. There's nothing but the door. Am I ready to go through the door?
Then I get it. And it's not what he said. It's how he looks. Resigned and expectant at the same time, truly a Sam Seaborn attribute.
"You think I'm.... Sam. You think I want to - " I can't say it, and it hardly matters because we both know what he's talking about.
He instinctively arranges the sheet high around his waist, and for no other reason but that just a moment ago I was desperately tempted to touch his stomach, it annoys the hell out of me.
Bringing my brows together in what I hope is a significantly menacing expression, I turn my body to face him head on. "What the hell are you talking about? Leave you? What could possibly make you think that?"
"You've started taking me for granted," he starts again, but I don't want to hear it.
"So we've gotten to a place where we make certain assumptions about each other," I argue. "Isn't that supposed to be a good thing? Like, the next step, or something?"
"Are you asking me?"
"I guess. You're the one with the problem here."
"Well, can I just tell you; you're asking the wrong guy."
I don't know what he means by that, but I'm not done with the other thing. The me neglecting him thing. Before I can pick that theme up again, he's giving me a somewhat chagrinned look, a touch of exasperated eye rolling too.
"I suck at the next step," he says. "And you; you do to. We suck."
That's true enough. I guess this is the place in the relationship where he runs out of steam, and I just run. We've watched each other do it more times than I can count, but it never occurred to me that it would happen now, to us.
"Is that what you want?" I ask, and can hear the dare in my voice as I say it. Sam's *almost* as good at sabotaging relationships as I am.
He looks stunned, and a little hurt. "God no, Josh! I'm just trying to teach you a lesson. You've been an asshole to me, starting to neglect.... I just needed to teach you a lesson."
"Okay," I say. And that's pretty much all I have to say. But he wants more, and if it's true, I guess I owe him an apology too. Except....
"I don't think that's true," I tell him. "I've been busier than usual, we don't get to talk as much at work, yes. But, neglect? That's a fairly incendiary word to use there, cowboy. I - "
"Yeah; I'm not doing too well with those tonight, am I?" I say apologetically, and then move on quickly. "I'd think you'd *like* the fact that I expect us to be together every night. And you don't *want* me to touch you without announcing the fact first? What the fuck?"
Okay, he may have a point there. There was a time, a very brief, bad time in the beginning where I treated Sam more like an object than I cared to admit. It got pretty ugly; I acted like a dog in heat, he wasn't getting any sleep, so he left me. It took CJ to get him back. I still owe her.
But I'm almost completely confident that I'm not doing that again. We talked a lot after that, I dealt with some stuff with my shrink. I thought things were good now. Although judging by the way he's looking dolefully at me....
"I'm sorry." If I've made Sam feel that way, I really am terribly sorry. But now I'm more confused than ever. "I'm confused." My knees crack as I bring them up in front of me, my hands clasped securely around them.
Sam's a fairly complicated guy. His mind plainly doesn't work the way other people's do; that's just something you learn over time. It takes a lot of patient practice to figure out how his brain is mapped out. And sometimes, you simply have to ask for directions.
"How can I offend you on the one hand by wanting to touch you all the time, and insult you on the other hand by making you feel ignored?" I doubt that's even possible.
"You could ask, is all I'm saying. 'Sam, do you want to get fucked tonight?' " His expression is so totally disarming, I just stare. "That, that would pretty much cover *both* aspects that concern me."
There's a look he gets, a look that's purely Sam. His eyes are so far ahead of the rest of his face, everything shows up there first. Some people say they see it in his mouth first. The tightening, or the beginning of a smile. They don't know where to look, if they want to know Sam. It's in the eyes. And right now, I can see the unmistakable glint of a smile in there; the almost imperceptible, embryonic beginnings of a grin.
My ancient knees are aching already, so I slide back around until I have room to stretch out next to him, still an arm's length away. "I - I can do that." In fact, I'm already looking forward to walking up to Sam at some point tomorrow and saying that very thing to him.
And I want to know, "Was I supposed to... go after you this afternoon, or something? Did I fail the test?"
There it is. It's made its way to his lips, still slightly red from my earlier attack on them. That smile that I tend to fixate on at odd moments during the day, usually when he's nowhere in sight. It's burned so cleanly into my memory, I can almost feel the warmth from it creep through my body when I imagine it.
"It wasn't a test, Josh," Sam assures me. "It was a lesson. I just needed to have you miss me." His honestly astounds me. I can't do that. I can't allow myself to be that vulnerable with people, barely even with Sam sometimes. "And you did, didn't you?"
He's moving now, leaning towards me, bringing his legs under himself until he's on his knees, crawling closer. His voice drops when he speaks, husky and curious. "You didn't know if I was coming back," he murmurs. "You were worried I wasn't coming back."
God. I was. I really was.
Sam's breath is a strange mix of sweet and stale, him and me. His cheeks are washed in a rising rosy hue, and one corner of his mouth is twitching slightly. I watch his approach, mesmerized by the animal effect this man has on me, and reach out a long finger to trace his jaw bone lightly, shivering at the scratchy stubble under my touch.
He's nuzzling my ear now, still snarling about missing him, and I can't make out all the words over the overpowering roar in my head. If he thinks we're still going for records, he may be disappointed.
But I don't think he will be. Because in that moment I am so overwhelmed by my feelings for him, I throw my arms up to encircle his neck, and lean back enough to look him in the eyes.
"I am so endlessly in love with you, Sam. You... you really need to know that."
"I do know, Josh," he says with a small chuckle. "I needed *you* to know it."
It takes me a long time to draw my eyes away from him. He looks both wiser and younger than when I first met him, and I offer him a generous smile before molding my body to his. And my head fits so perfectly under his chin, I stay there for the rest of the night. Because *this* really is the sweetest thing.
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