Fun fact! This is the highest rated story I've written. Gotta say, it was fun.
Rating is for sexual situations.
She awakens to feel his arms wrapped around her.
They were in the hotel room they'd rented three towns south of Stone Mountain. Having effectively turned the entire audience of the Laugh Shack against them (which was essentially the entire town), they'd sprinted to the Kia Sorrento and made a hasty exit out to the interstate, slowed down briefly by the appearance of the current town mayor, who had apparently broken out of her pen and was feasting on the lawn in front of the main square.
The adrenaline that had sprung forth during their flight from that backwater slough had supplied them with enough energy to make it a hundred miles down the interstate before they both started to crash. They'd pulled in at the first motel they could find (Jack, for once, didn't object to the lack of a Michelin starred restaurant), and they'd both immediately made their way over to the aptly named Fugitive Bar for several double scotches and at least four wine spritzers.
When they'd finally stumbled back to their hotel room, they'd slowly realized that no, they didn't have reverse-double-vision, there really was only one bed. Too drunk to venture back out into the night air and too tired to really even care, they'd both fallen into bed fully clothed, letting the curtain of sleep and too much alcohol fall blissfully over them.
However, this was not how they had initially been positioned. She knows this, because she's quite certain that even completely wasted she'd still have a thing or two to say about Jack Donaghy placing his arms around her body.
But here they are.
She moves to slide out from under his grasp, but the motion stirs him from his slumber. Moaning softly he pulls her closer, nuzzling his face into her neck and sliding a hand up her side.
Involuntarily, she groans. The feel of his hand on her skin is strangely (unnaturally?) wonderful, as a wave of pleasure making its way up her spine.
"Jack...?" she asks tentatively, unsure of what exactly his intentions are.
Suddenly, perhaps in response to the sound of his name or perhaps to some other stimuli, she finds herself being flipped, placing her now completely on her back. He is a shadow now above her, a faceless shape in the dark.
"Jack...?" she asks again, even softer than before.
This time, he answers by placing both elbows down on either side of her, his knees settling in between her own. The next thing she feels is the soft, warm touch of his lips against her neck, perfectly synchronized with the movement of his hands up and down her sides.
Her body betrays her, arching up against him involuntarily, a primal instinct left over from ancestors long ago. He takes this as a sign to continue, and the next thing she knows he is pressing his mouth against hers, hot and urgent, and some part of her obviously wants this too. She's kissing him back just as urgently, moving her hands upwards and tangling her fingers in his hair. His lips leave hers and trail down her neck, and suddenly her shirt is open, buttons magically undone and exposing her from her hips up to her throat.
He doesn't say anything, not at least anything coherent (but she thinks he might have murmured "Lemon..." as his eyes rakes over her. Before she can even think to say something - like maybe about how weird this is? - his mouth is on her breast and she's forgotten about the existence of the spoken word. She gasps as he alternates between the two, all the while playing with the other one with his free hand. In the deepest corner of her mind, she catches herself wondering how he can multitask like that, she can barely manage to bring a slice of pizza up to her mouth while concentrating on Dancing With the Stars.
After a second or an eternity, she can feel his touches move further and further south, until they reach the line where denim meets bare skin. Without warning, he takes off her jeans and underwear, all in one (seriously, is it some sort of clothing magic?), and she loses the ability to form coherent thoughts as his fingers make their way down into her apex. His mouth soon follows, and as he begins his ministrations, she moans and grabs the sheets around her before embedding her fingers in his hair once more.
Jack Donaghy's hair.
Her boss's hair. Her best friend's hair. Her mentor's hair.
What the hell is she doing?
"Jack..." she says again, but this time a little more firmly. When she gets no response she pulls up on his chin, meeting his eyes. "Jack," she says more forcefully now, "we have to stop." Her voice falters at the end, and she prays he doesn't notice.
He looks at her then, and the fog in his eyes seem to fade, the blue shining through clearer than before. "Lemon?" he says, whispering now.
"Jack... This - you don't want to do this..."
He states at her, comprehension slowly dawning on him. "What... I - I am so sorry Lem- I mean Liz."
She buttons her shirt back off as he speaks, and as he watches her, he seems to realize where he is. He rolls off of her, placing his heels onto the ground and rising to his feet slowly.
A long moment passes. She quickly puts her pants back on, avoiding his gaze the whole time.
"Are you okay?" he asks softly, and all the remorse in the world is present in his tones, and it's just too much for her to take.
"I think you should sleep on the floor," she whispers, passing him a pillow and a blanket without meeting his eyes.
He says nothing, simply taking the items from her and settling into a sleeping position on the hotel carpet, not even muttering about the cleanliness in a place like this.
It is the longest night of their lives. And it will be an even longer morning.