Just Like Breathing

"Oh, god," she breathed, her head falling back against the door.

"Mmm," he agreed.

Sam bit her lip and tried to concentrate. "Jack," she hissed, sternly. Or at least as sternly as one could hiss, pressed up against a door in about as compromising a position as possible while fully clothed.

He just mmm-ed at her again – which was really annoying – before he grazed his teeth against that spot on the side of her neck, right below her ear. And that was really not annoying; in fact, it was –

Oh. Oh oh oh.

Sam closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The only explanation was oxygen deprivation. This was a small room. They must have used it all up, gotten giddy, and proceeded to abandon all common sense.

It couldn't possibly have anything to do with the heat of his body next to hers in the tiny space, or the familiar scent of him each time she inhaled, or the smile he'd given her half an hour earlier when they'd met for the first time after spending weeks apart.

She had more self control than to thread her hands in his hair and drag his head down to hers at the first opportunity simply because she'd missed him. And he definitely had a better sense of duty and decorum than to stand there in his uniform and push her against the door and – oh, god – kiss her back.

So she didn't care if it made any sense. She was going with oxygen deprivation. And regardless, they needed to stop.

"Jack." She willed herself to ignore his hand (on her ass) and his lips (now tracing a line just above the starched collar of her shirt) and other parts of his anatomy (pressing near other parts of her anatomy and beginning to make his interest very, very clear). "We are not," and she assured herself that she had absolutely not just squeaked that word, "doing this here."

"No?"

"No." And he definitely needed to stop that thing he was doing with his tongue (except she really, really hoped he remembered it later). "We're not."

"Mmm," he said again, showing no sign of stopping, and how, she wondered, did he make touching her through this stupid uniform feel so incredible? It wasn't fair.

Taking hold of his hair again, she pulled. Hard.

He stared down at her. "Ow," he said, eyebrows pulling together in an expression that was not at all adorable (she told herself sternly).

"You kissed off my lipstick," she said, huffing out a breath.

He stared for several seconds more, then cracked a smirk as he shrugged. "More fun than going down the hall and briefing a bunch of senators."

"Jack, getting shot at is more fun than briefing a bunch of senators."

He kissed her nose. "I taught you so well."

Sam rolled her eyes.

He jerked his head toward the door. "Do you think she's gone?" he asked, referring to the IOA staffer he'd ducked into the closet to avoid in the first place.

"Unless she's got an inexplicable fascination with the closet doors in a senate office building, I'd say it's pretty likely."

Placing his hand against the door on either side of her shoulders, he leaned in and spoke in her ear. "I've come to be quite fond of them myself."

She shoved him off, telling herself that she didn't notice the parts of his anatomy that were obviously still interested.

The next two hours were going to kill her.

"We're going to be late," she said.

He grinned. "Well, I am, anyway. I'm going to need a few minutes to," he gestured downwards. "You know."

Unfortunately, she did know.

"You'll have to make my excuses," he continued.

Her eyes narrowed.

"Just tell them something came –"

"Oh, don't," she protested.

"Up," he finished.

"Oh, god," she said, turning and escaping through the closet door. "I hate you," she called back over her shoulder.

She walked off down the hallway to the low sound of his laughter. Which didn't make her want to go back and kiss him again.

Really.

THE END