"Leather" By Cagey

Title: Leather

Rating: NC17

Warning: Plot? We don't need no stinkin' plot. This (ahem) so-called story does include lovingly described consensual M/F sex, however, and adult language. Do not read if you are below the age of consent, or your sensibilities will be offended.

Classification: S&J romance, PWP

Summary: Sam, Jack, smut, smut, smut

Spoilers: minor ones for "The First Commandment."

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, have nowhere to store them if I did.

Author's note: This plotless bit of smut answers two challenges: the NC-17 "someplace unusual" request, and the more recent challenge by Andrea for an S/J story that includes the line "blame it on the drugs." I didn't intend for it to answer the first challenge; in fact, I tried to get them to a hotel. I swear. I can prove it. Do I think that our beloved characters would act this way? Probably not. Are backseats this big? Only in a TARDIS. Boy, you've got some nerve being so nitpicky. Just sit back and enjoy.

Leather by Cagey

Who knew that Samantha Carter wore a leather jacket in her off hours? Or that the jacket, combined with faded jeans, a well-fitted blue shirt, and calf-high boots, was enough to send a man whose mind was already in the gutter happily rummaging there for further entertainment?

Jack O'Neill knew. He had spotted her as he sat at the bar, listlessly finishing his drink while a former military buddy methodically caught up Jack on the last eight years of his life. She was with a small group of women -- Janet Fraiser among them, he noted -- heading to the other half of the club. Behind him, the click of billiard balls served as a gentle counterpoint to the bass thumping its way through the plaster walls. Here: determined drinkers, focused pool sharks. There: gyrating figures under the shimmering light of an actual 1970s disco ball.

His mind stayed resolutely There while the ice in his whiskey melted and his friend's saga slowly wound its way to 1999.

Forty-five minutes later, O'Neill finally disengaged himself from his drinking partner with the excuse that the last eight years of his life were mostly classified. He waved goodbye with some relief, busying himself with paying the tab so as to avoid the offer of sharing further drinks, meals, or wallowing in the past. The time that he had shared with other military before the Abydos mission seemed like a dream, sometimes. It was a different life, with far different rules and expectations.

He scrawled his name across the proffered credit card slip and pivoted, only to discover Sam Carter posing provocatively at a pool table. Or at least, that's how it seemed. She was, at the moment his eye caught her form, just leaning forward to line up the pool stick. With one knee bent, the chunky heel of her boot gave her enough leverage to smoothly align intent and motion; tip struck cue ball with even confidence, ball shuttled target into the desired pocket. Mathematical poetry.

How had he missed her entrance? And who was the bozo that she was playing against?

Just as he had resolved to turn away without comment, she lifted her head and her eyes met his. If he expected to find surprise there, it was noticeably absent. He wasn't sure that he liked his physical response to that fact: the hollow feeling in his stomach was too much like anticipation.

As he hesitated, debating whether to force a greeting, she leaned towards her companion and said something. The man -- tall, rugged, with a slightly too-knowing smile -- responded with a shrug before he returned his attention to the pool table. Carter put a hand on his shoulder briefly, then turned towards O'Neill and crossed the distance between them.

"Colonel," she offered, stopping beside him at the bar. "I didn't want to interrupt your conversation, or I would have said hello sooner."

"Major," he acknowledged. Then, with a jerk of his head toward the pool table, he continued, "I thought it was girls' night out?"

She smiled briefly, and O'Neill realized that he had revealed his own observation of her entrance.

"As Janet says, it's not a real girls' night if everybody goes home together." Carter's eyes sparkled merrily, as if she knew just how uncomfortable this banter might make him. There was something in her tonight, though...some recklessness that made her willing to push him.

"Are you on a mission, then?" he drawled, playing the game with her. "Seek and destroy, maybe?"

Her smile faltered for only a split second. "I don't break hearts, Colonel. It's not fair."

He knew a little of her personal life, mostly those scraps which came out at occasional group card games. Only with the arrival of Jonas at Stargate Command had she addressed the subject directly, and then only because duty demanded it. And look how that had turned out....

"Wise policy," O'Neill congratulated her. He looked toward the bartender impatiently hovering in their vicinity. "Can I buy you a drink?"

She shook her head negatively. "I've had enough already. But thanks."

He nodded in satisfaction. "Keeping a clear head. Another wise policy."

Sam grimaced at his words. "I'm not on duty, sir."

He was a little taken aback at her tone. "I know that, Carter." O'Neill sighed internally; he had not intended for the conversation to degenerate. Why the hell couldn't he step out of commander mode for the length of a simple chat? Meaning to make amends, he began, "Sam, I--"

"Sam." The interloper was Mr. Smarmy Smile, his patience apparently exhausted. "There's people waiting to use the table."

"I'll be there in a second, Jeff," she answered.

O'Neill glared balefully at the man as he put a hand firmly on her shoulder. Carter started to shrug him off, but Jack put his own hand against the newcomer's chest. "The lady is busy at the moment, fella."

As Jeff bristled, Carter stared at O'Neill in surprise. Then, with a mix of exasperation and annoyance on her face, she pushed past both of them. "Why don't you two play together instead? This seems like a boys' game to me."

Jeff sniffed dismissively at her retreating figure, and at Jack, before striding back to the pool table. O'Neill rubbed a hand over his face and closed his eyes briefly. Fuck it.

"Sam," he called, pursuing her out the doorway. He caught a glimpse of her passing through the double doors that led outside, and quickened his pace. "Sam." He threaded his way in the dark through a row of beat-up Toyotas and rusting Chevys, until he spotted Carter's car, with its owner already halfway in the driver's side door. "Major!" he said more forcefully, and he saw her hesitate, then turn back, letting the car door swing shut behind her.

"What?" she demanded as he caught up with her. "What do you want, sir?" Her emphasis on the last word told him that she was not willing to take any further pulling of rank.

He moved closer, hedging her in the dark corner between her own car and those parked awkwardly next to it. "What was that about?" Bewildered, he leaned towards her, seeking some answer in her flashing eyes. It was a mistake; the vanilla fragrance of her perfume lay hidden in the folds of that damned jacket.

Sam did not notice his sudden discomfort. "What was it about?" she repeated incredulously. "Geez, Jack, can't you drop the smart-ass macho act for a second?" She screwed her eyes shut, all light-heartedness gone. When she opened them again, something stark and pained looked back at him. "Can't you forget, just for a minute, about work?"

He shrugged slightly, unwilling to admit how he had chided himself for the same thing. "I'm sorry." The darkness of the parking lot suddenly seemed oppressive. "I'm not sure if I know how."

Her anger returned, sharp and relentless. "Pretend." With a suddenness that took him unawares, she grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him to her. Perhaps she was surprised too, for the momentum seemed to leave her unprepared, and they fell back against the side of her car. As he struggled to regain his equilibrium, her lips crushed his, their salty coercion demanding more. Without thinking, he found himself kissing her back. Her fingers were cool against the back of his neck as he braced himself with both hands against the window that served as a support. Her mouth...oh lord, her mouth was welcoming, so sweet. This was so wrong. It was so right.

She released him too quickly, her hands ineffectually trying to smooth the tracks that she had wrought on his shirtfront. "I'm sorry," she whispered into his chest, not meeting his eyes. "I just wish that for once you could pretend I'm a woman."

Pretend.... She obviously wasn't a mind reader. The picture that he had entertained not ten minutes before, of Sam's lithe form in the multicolored glare of the dance floor, had featured attributes that were not generally flattered by military fatigues. "Christ, Sam. There isn't a day that goes by when I don't try to *forget* that you're a woman."

"Prove it." It was a small, joyless joke.

The smooth leather of her jacket was buttery soft, yielding easily under his palm. He pushed one edge of it back, revealing a blue-clad shoulder, and grasped her more roughly than he intended. Sam gave a soft sigh of surprise as he traced the line of her bottom lip with his tongue, then captured it. The silky fabric of her blouse blended into the hard line of her shoulder blade under his touch, and for a moment he thought he had clawed right through the material, that he could feel her bare skin under his fingertips.

As her hand moved to his waist, edging past the hem of his shirt to stroke the tensed muscles of his back, he wondered briefly what the hell had come over him. His hand did not seem to share such concerns, however, for her sharp intake of breath told him that yes, he was caressing the gentle swell of her stomach and teasing the skin at the waist of her jeans.

"Sam?" His own voice -- husky, confused, impatient -- surprised him. Yet he needed to hear her voice, to know that this wasn't some crazy fantasy from which he was going to wake up.

She buried her face in the soft flesh between his neck and shoulder, a slight nip with her teeth emphasizing her intent. "Don't you dare stop," she ordered. "Don't you d--"

She broke off with a gasp as his fingers skirted the edge of her underwear. The barrier which her jeans' button had posed was gone, and the zipper of her pants parted as his hand slipped lower. Ah, the warm beckoning of that tangle of curls, the pulsing of her muscles as she waited, breathless...

She was warm, smooth and welcoming. Sam gave a strangled sigh as he teased her with his fingers, drawing her to him in an insistent rhythm. With his free hand he explored the slight shivers that his touch elicited on her back, tracing a path across her hips, cupping her buttocks to give her support as she strained toward him. As his pace increased, she closed her eyes and arched her neck, the back of her head resting against the car.

"Aren't you glad," he whispered in her ear, "that you wore boots?"

Her reply was lost in a soft moan as he plunged into her, filling her need with his fingers until she found release. Her quivering limbs nearly failed her, but he caught her in a one-armed embrace before she could slide away. They stood awkwardly for a moment, his hand still trapped between her legs, until Sam released him.

"I don't need to be tall, smart aleck," she murmured to him, molding herself against the insistent pressure of his erection, "Not if I can make you short."

Jack chuckled as she opened the passenger side door of the car, then nearly pushed him in. He ducked to avoid hitting his head on the frame as he fell backwards. Before he had time to adjust to the incline of the back seat, she was on top of him. Somehow she managed to close the door behind them, and before the interior dome light had clicked off again, he groaned. Her hands fumbling at his belt, her tongue tasting the edge of his jaw, her hips grinding a remorseless rhythm against him -- he was lost in a tumult of friction and pressure.

That damned, exasperating, exhilarating jacket...he was caught in the tangle of her clothes, still trying to maneuver through the pleasing maze of silk, leather, and vanilla, when she stopped in him in mid-course. Sam thumbed the hard shaft of his erection with just the slightest edge of her fingernail, and he was frozen. Teasing him with finely controlled movements -- he nearly cried aloud as she tested him against the faded fabric of her jeans, the soft warmth of her palm, the laced edge of her underwear. Finally, when he could barely stand the conflicting sensations, she fished a small packet from the pocket of the jacket.

"You *were* hunting," he managed, from between gritted teeth.

She lifted her head to look at him as she extricated the condom from its wrapping. Her smile was devilish as she grasped him. "Always prepared. Isn't that our motto?"

"I thought it was 'Always Reckless'," O'Neill gasped. The sweet torture as she rolled the condom into place made words difficult.

"That fits too," Sam sighed in satisfaction, and then she slid onto him.

They breathed together -- a sharp, shuddering sigh of contentment at the fusion of their bodies. That moment was so encompassing that he barely knew which of them began the slow, even rocking. He moved his hands to her hips, guiding himself deeper into her as she brushed the side of his face with curled fingers. The small confines of the back seat seemed to press in on them, crushing their bodies together in an intimacy that he had not felt...in how long? When had it ever felt this good? How had he ever resisted threading his fingers through her short blonde hair, or watching as she bit her bottom lip in anticipation at the coming crescendo?

He gasped as he exploded inside of her. All he could register, in the frenzy of pleasures, was the sound of her voice as she breathed his name.

When he finally gained control of his shuddering limbs and senses, she was burrowed in the shelter of his arms. Her jacket lay heavily on them both as a dark, warm blanket. In that moment, the moving spotlight of an incoming car's headlights froze him in an instant of sanity. "Major," he began reluctantly.

"Shut up, Jack." She nuzzled his earlobe. "Don't you dare start citing regulations at me. Or common sense."

"Aw hell," he protested, relieved by her playful tone. "If anyone asks, just blame it on the drugs."

Sam stopped, and looked at him in surprise. Even in the dark of their makeshift cocoon, he could see the worried twist of her lips. "What are you talking about?"

"You." He claimed a kiss. "You have got to be an illegal substance. You and that jacket."

"Ah." Sam lay her head on his chest. "You should come to my place. I've got a whole closet full of them."

Oh, the anticipation...

*end*