"Sam," Jess moans, writhing on the bed, sweat pooling like an oil slick between her breasts.
One long blonde curl is covering her nipple. Sam brushes it away with a touch so delicate and precise he doesn't make contact with her heated flesh; Jess whimpers as the strands of hair tease her skin. "Someone was playing peek-a-boo," Sam murmurs, watching Jess raise her chin hopefully, clearly waiting for him to remove the silk handkerchief covering her eyes.
He takes her by surprise instead, laying one palm flat against her belly, then trailing his fingers lower.
"Yessss," she hisses, and bucks.
"Principal's office, during the pledge of allegiance," Jess says.
"Whoa!" Terry yells, way too loud. "Sam, I don't think you can handle this girl." He wipes his mouth dry with the back of his hand. "I could –"
Sam stays silent. Jess doesn't need him to defend her, not with a mouth like that. Right on cue, she drains her glass of Stella and parks herself in his lap. "I think Sam handles me just fine," she says, slipping her hands under his shirt, coaxing him with her tongue to do the same.
She tastes mostly of pale, thin beer, but her hands move so knowingly over his skin that he feels himself get caught up in the moment anyway, the crowd at Bard's be damned, even Izzie, who's supposed to give them a ride home once her shift is over.
His fingers hit the catch on her bra, and she pulls back to smile at him, twisting on his lap to hear the rest of the responses. He keeps his hands on her hot skin, plants his mouth against her neck, and doesn't bother to pay any attention; he knows no one's going to beat her at this game.
Sam can hear the water sloshing around in the tub and Jess singing, totally off-key and not caring even a little bit, and wonders for the thousandth time how a girl six feet tall could fit herself into that cramped tub three nights a week and why she took such pleasure in the ritual.
He looks through the stack of delivery menus, but can't decide which place to call. He'll make it Jess's decision.
She's so wrapped up in her song – something she'd played on repeat once for a week and a half, and he'd nearly been ready to find a motel room until she got that particular CD out of her system – that she doesn't hear him enter the bathroom. He was right; she doesn't fit in the tub. Both her knees are clearing the water by a few inches, and there are small waves lapping at the undersides of her breasts.
Her skin is flushed bright pink from the heat. She's pink and damp all over.
Her eyes stay shut as she trails one hand lazily through the water, splashing a bit on her shoulders. He takes his cue from her and slips a hand into the water so smoothly there's barely a ripple to give him away.
His hand is on her cheek, then, and her eyes are open, sparkling hot and blue, until they flutter closed in invitation. Her mouth opens under his without any hesitation, and it feels like someone's got a fist around his heart, that he can have this so easily, no bargaining or acting necessary.
She's sinking back, falling into his hands, and suddenly he knows how that must feel, to let someone else hold you up, because that's the moment that he says, "I love you, Jess," and watches her bright smile bloom.