Title: Where To, Sir?

Summary: Foyle and Sam didn't really hit it off on Day One…or did they?

Genre: (Im)pure, (almost) unadulterated Foyle-fluff.

A/N: An antidote to all those fics that make them play the waiting game.

It took a lot to surprise DCS Foyle, but he was definitely startled when he realised what the girl had done. Keegan lay sprawled on the ground, so still and wide-eyed that for a split second Foyle thought he might be dead. Miss Stewart was holding up a dustbin lid like a Roman shield, standing tall and a little stern in her neat MTC uniform. She was magnificent.

Foyle adjusted his tie, collecting his wits as he processed the scene. A swift replay of his conduct towards Sam Stewart on her first day frankly shamed him: he had been both brusque and churlish. Certainly his normal gentlemanliness had been absent, but it was to this courteous behaviour that he now reverted, somewhat embarrassed at how his body was subtly vibrating in… was it just astonishment? He cleared his throat quietly. "Sam?"

The slightest hint of anxiety entered her large brown eyes, as if she doubted his approval at her intervention. She had, after all, disobeyed him and left the car. "Sir?"

He widened his own eyes in disbelief at the words about to issue from his mouth, considering the doubts he had entertained about her as she chattered at him earlier in the day.

"Thank you," he uttered simply but emphatically, and walked on past her to the car to fetch handcuffs for his unconscious prisoner.

Sam's chin went up at his praise, and she tried her utmost not to gloat. Victory! He wasn't cross at her for helping him! Hooray!

She was quiet during the drive back, slightly anxious for her new boss as the groggy fraudster struggled to waken. Little did she understand that Foyle's grim concern, as he monitored Keegan, was out of fear the man would lash out in retaliation at his driver.

His preoccupation gave Sam the chance to glance at the Chief Super more without him noticing. It had struck her from their first moment of meeting how good-looking Mr Foyle was; granted he was older, but he had such an expressive face. His boyish surprise upon first laying eyes on her had been utterly adorable, but Sam also liked his shrewd and studious and even glaring looks; it fascinated her that the same pair of brilliant blue eyes could be ice cold, or soft and warm as cornflowers in a sunny pasture.

There was much to be done once they had returned to the station after lunch. It didn't take Foyle long to quietly scare Keegan into talking, but he also had additional calls to make and interviews to set up. It was six o'clock and the station had emptied out, but Sam didn't mind a bit; she'd explored the facility and chatted with a few constables, getting the lay of the land in her new setting. But she wanted to be helpful to her new employer if he needed her. That was what made today feel so satisfying; she got the feeling she could truly help him, and the funny little frisson she already felt when she thought about seeing him was energising as well.

Sam knocked quietly at DCS Foyle's partially open office door.

The DCS appeared to be deep in thought as she peered around it. He sat in his shirtsleeves, head tilted down in concentration, looking positively beautiful in the soft yellow lamplight of his desk.

He glanced at her with a kind, apologetic look in his eyes, as if registering suddenly how late he'd kept her here. In the lovely blue depths Sam saw this time an ephemeral note of sadness.

She didn't really want to leave him. "Can I get you anything while you finish up, sir? Tea?"

"You needn't wait, Sam. I can walk home if you'd like to get going."

"Wouldn't take a moment. Let me just…" she trailed off as she slipped out of the room.

Foyle's eyes drifted after her, and he gave one slow, languorous blink before frowning at himself and turning his tired gaze back to his papers.

A few minutes later she reappeared with a tray, teapot and cups, milk, tiny pot of sweetener, and neatly folded tea-towel.

"I've brought honey because there wasn't any sugar," she said, trying unsuccessfully to hide the pride in her voice at the presentation. She poured his cup with a flourish and began to hand it to him, but his hint of an appreciative smile quite disarmed her. She spilled a sizeable dollop of the milky tea into his lap, and he involuntarily scraped back his chair in attempted escape. Panicking, Sam grasped the tea towel and, not quite thinking, darted forwards with her hand as if to mop him up.

Foyle could hardly have her going for his groin, even after the mishap calmed some of what he'd feared to have her see there. He reflexively grabbed her wrist tightly, and two pairs of startled eyes met at the electricity of the contact.

Before she even knew it, Sam had reached out a small, shy hand and touched his cheek—just the gentlest, lightest caress—anything to apologise for her nervous clumsiness, and to assuage that flicker of pain she had seen earlier.

Foyle shut his eyes, furrowing his brow. What was she doing? And what was he doing, letting her? But oh, God, it felt so comforting and sweet. She was sweet. And lively and smart and strong… The lonely policeman stood suddenly, and before his usual 'better judgement' could stop him, he had gathered the girl into his arms and kissed her soundly.

Had Sam resisted him in any way, Foyle would have regained possession of his senses and immediately begged her pardon, but innocent and inexperienced as she was, Sam had never felt anything so pleasurable, so right as his warm soft lips on hers, gentle and demanding at the same time. All she wanted was to go on feeling these sensations: his hands cradling her head as he moved his mouth urgently over hers, the warm press of his body all along her own.

Thinking all her Christmases had come at once, Sam tightened her arms about his neck and moaned softly. The tip of his tongue was engaged in tender exploration of her lips, seeming to urge them open, and the surge of pleasure she felt as she complied made her feel lightheaded and powerful all at once. It struck her that this power was even more intense than that she had sensed when felling Keegan with a dustbin lid, and yet it was disarming, too. She moaned again in something between helplessness and triumph.

Her breathily impassioned sound brought Christopher Foyle back to earth with a jolt, and he wrenched away from her, hoping in the same instant that his determined motion of separation had not harmed her in any way.

But her eyes were still dreamily closed. "Sir…"

"Oh, God, Miss Stewart, I-I-I…"

Sam flung herself to close the space between them, clasping his chest against hers in an almost fierce embrace, and experimenting with a movement of her own tongue the very second their mouths met again.

Christopher Foyle was an honourable man, and he knew he had to stop this madness, no matter how absurdly honest and beautiful it was feeling. It was just as if this young woman had been made for him to hold and kiss—the way her tongue played eagerly with his as his lips crushed against hers and the way his lower body fitted warm and hard against her softness. If this was wrong, as he kept trying to remind himself it was, why did it feel so heavenly and soothing? Oh, just a few moments more of this bliss…another sip of her vitality, like succour to a starving man…

Sam pulled back just the slightest bit and tucked her face against his neck, catching her breath but not loosening her snug hold on him. Both their hearts beat rapidly, but it did not alarm or horrify her that she could feel against her thighs how definitely aroused Mr Foyle had become; on the contrary, she was thrilled by it. She knew what it meant, from the few kisses she had shared with boys in school and at a couple of social engagements during her MTC training. But none of those had ever come close to the delicious intensity of this man's kiss. Never before had she felt ready to carry through on the desire suggested by those earlier fevered fumblings.

Never before. But in a flash of clarity Sam saw that she was on the brink of something different and special…

"Oh, God, Miss Stewart, I-I-I…"

Miss Stewart? Oh, no. She wasn't having that. Not after this. "You didn't call me 'Miss Stewart' on the Stade this afternoon. You called me Sam," she admonished gently. "I caught him for you, didn't I? And knocked him cold for you. I even hoped," she breathed, "you'd think… that I was clever? Did you think that, Sir?"

Foyle's eyes closed, conjuring once more the scene upon the beach. "I thought," he grated, trembling with the effort of composure, "that you were possibly the most arresting thing I'd ever seen. And I would never"— his eyes squeezed tight shut—"ever make the error of underestimating you again." He took a deep and measured breath to calm his nerves. "My name… is Christopher. And while… your arms are round me, it feels entirely appropriate that you should call me by my name."

He bent his head and moved a trembling hand to tilt her chin so he could once more fasten his lips to hers. And this time—this time—he could feel the raw, inexorable pull of her that drew him from himself and separated him from reason, logic and the cold control demanded by his role as a policeman.

He felt the prickle of his instincts pushing rationality behind him. The heady spice of intuition, whispering the simple truth of this before his reason caught up with his senses. This, then, was the unrefined instinctual urge that overrode his scruples, conquered all restraining force and fuelled his desire: the image of Samantha Stewart, stalwart and indomitable, standing fast against the tide of crime and filth and general depravity that wore him down and served to undermine his faith in human nature.

This girl stood for the pure antithesis of every single squalid, soul-destroying—Christ! He had to have her, or his very being stood in danger of succumbing to the black abyss of loneliness and misery. "Samantha… Sam!" Even as his lips caressed her name, he felt her melt against him and he knew that his professional persona was as good as lost, annihilated by his overpowering need.

Sensing that a barrier had fallen, Sam locked herself against his mouth with an insistence bordering on greed. Determined not to let him part from her, she applied herself to learning how to breathe in through her nose whilst continuing to kiss him thoroughly. It took her barely thirty seconds to become a master of the art. Fully comfortable now with what she felt could be a permanent disposition, she brought her hands from round his sides and plunged them up into the soft curls covering the back of his head, the better to secure him to her.

Amorous mewls were issuing from her throat as Foyle's tongue moved to invade her mouth, eschewing all pretence now of decorum or reserve. His hands moved to her hips, directing the delicious curve of her behind against the solid, rounded front edge of his desk, and he was moving in to pin her firmly up against it, nudging at the now-taut fabric of her skirt between her knees.

One hand slid down to deal with the offending wall of khaki cloth, grasping at the hem below her knee and pulling up the rough material until it bunched around her hips. Foyle's fingers trailed hungrily over enticing stocking top and soft bare flesh, encountering a strip of cotton-clad elastic and skating over the merest barrier of silk. Flimsy, indeed. The leg of the alluring garment was provocatively loose, allowing him to slip his hand beneath and test the limits of his own endurance.

The slender body in his grasp arced invitingly, shooting a bolt of pleasured electricity straight to his groin. Oh dear Lord, how wet she was… any concern he had about her readiness for him was allayed by the silky heat into which he so easily slid his fingers.

At the unaccustomed touch Sam whimpered with unabashed longing, her legs opening further as she thrashed again, her dark eyes painting him a look that told him he was wearing far too many clothes. Then she gasped, "Please!"—though she was by no means certain yet what she was begging for.

Foyle furrowed his brow at the sheer sweet eroticism of the plea. For the briefest moment he placed his hands lovingly on her waist, as if they were a couple on the dance floor. It took all his willpower then to peel them from her, but having managed the impossible, with a deep breath he shrugged his braces from his broad shoulders and applied his fingers to undo his trousers.

First the closure of his waistband, unhooked in a short, suave movement while he leaned in to devour her lips. Then came the flies—he cursed the buttons silently. His fingers fumbled as his urgency impelled him to make haste. And blast the final button on his boxer shorts, made more difficult to address by the insolent state of his arousal! And all the time, the girl's lips melded to his own and gave back every ounce of passion he was lending to the kiss.

The trousers fell around his knees, and he was springing forward, turgid, through the slit of his underwear, pointing like a road sign labelled "Home".

Foyle moved a hand to check once more the state of his companion, and felt her gasp into his busy mouth as his middle finger slid inside her, crooking upwards to locate her core. He stroked. Once. Sam was barely able to contain her whimpers and Foyle's other hand came up to seal her mouth.

"Hush. Sam. Hush. Oh dear God, be silent if you can. I've no idea who might be out there still."

Sam panted underneath his hand, her eyes wide in ecstatic certainty this gorgeous man was going to break and take her on the desk here in his office. And she wanted it no other way. She pulled her head back just a little. "Please. Christopher. Please. Hurry." Her words came as a tickle in his palm, which he now moved and slid around her back to brace her as he moved in closer, touching his arousal to her dewy opening.

"Lean back now… lean back on your hands… that's right, love." He paused for a moment to enjoy the vision. Sam's tunic strained across her upthrust breasts. He longed for their forbidden softness, but that glorious pleasure would for now have to wait. Long strands of honey hair had come adrift from her upsweep, and framed her features, further softened from their normal sweetness by the passion they had spun together in these heady moments.

"Sam," he spoke now quietly and urgently—the tightness of her told him that she was a virgin. "It has to hurt a little. I'm so sorry. If you want to stop… one word from you…"

The last part came out almost as a sob. Dear God! He hoped she wouldn't speak that word. He scrunched his eyes and waited, leaning with his forehead resting lightly on her own.

All Sam could feel was that he'd hesitated, and she couldn't bear to wait a moment longer. Her answer was to seal her mouth to his and pull him hard against her, lifting her right leg instinctively to wrap around his hips and hook him to her.

There was nowhere else for him to go—not that he would have entertained the thought. He sank into her luscious wetness with a low primeval grunt of satisfaction, covering her mouth with his to swallow down the gasp he knew would come the instant that he breached her maidenhead.

The plunge was a delectable fall from grace that taught him more about his own humanity than he had ever hoped or feared to learn.

Sam's heart swelled in an overwhelming haze of lust that dulled the momentary sharp pain of transition. Then she set about expressing welcome in every way that she could muster.

He had tensed when he could feel her do so, but with the warm inspiring upward tilting of her hips and her fervent murmur in his ear of "Oh, yes... please don't stop," he felt all negative tensions leave him in a flood of joy. Pleasure vibrated in his every cell as he pulled back and filled her again, struggling to suppress a deep groan at the highly stimulating sound of her quiet small gasps of ecstasy. A tiny part of his brain still knew this should not be happening, he should not have let things go this far, but all of that was outweighed by the exquisite rightness of it, the way their bodies fit together, and the way they were bringing each other not merely pleasure, but an overpowering sense of happiness. He paused in his hot slow thrusts to enjoy Samantha's look of sheer abandonment, and felt a rush of love for her youth, her beauty and her strength.

"Sam," he whispered, adoration shining in his eyes. Hers lit up in turn, and she let her pert little nose nuzzle his, inviting yet another kiss. His mouth found hers again and they were lost within that kiss: its depth, its meaning... how could it be that they had met just hours ago, when here was the clear evidence they knew and cared for each other so very much? As if in answer, she squeezed her inner muscles, grasping him deliciously—a sign of how she might possess not just his body, but his heart and mind.

Oh, the scent of this lovely woman, the wine of her kisses… It had been such a very long time, and he wasn't going to last. He held back tears at the realisation, but there was no chance to think of anything except the bliss of this sensation. Despite the escalating ache within his loins—a symbol of the ache of emptiness he'd felt for eight long years—he knew what profound pleasure would be upon him any moment now. There would be such a blaze of release; all of him would unclench, and he would flow forth, and be free…

Just as this new strand of realisation wove itself through his mindless passion, he thought about his seed. Wrong, wrong, wrong to endanger her in that way… must pull out in time…

Samantha was in heaven… his hands were threaded through her hair and his body was merging with hers and she had become a kind of sacred music soaring to the topmost corner of the nave… shedding sweetly joyous tears in answer to his forceful tenderness… climbing to an exhilarating height and anchoring herself against the only solid thing in reach: her Christopher.

Never had she felt a rush of joy and pleasure such as this, and, though she'd never known such intimacy in her life, her instincts hungered for his deliverance to be hot and deep inside her. She heard his low dark moan of agonized anticipation and clutched his shoulders yet more tightly, answering his thrusts with upward pelvic movements of her own, and punctuating all his gasps for air with her breathlessly loving sounds of soft encouragement.

Must pull out in time…

He stilled for a split second and began to shudder. Then to her horror he began to pull away. If he did, her mind somehow reasoned, she would succumb to vertigo, be denied completion; and the absolute rightness of this union—this feeding of her very spirit—would be lost.

Sam could not let this come about; in less than a second she had clamped both legs about his waist and locked him into place within her.

"Sam! I need to—" In that instant, he discovered the power of a determined woman's thighs, combined with the tight inner muscles of an until-now-unnavigated channel. His cry of alarm became a surging growl as his hips gave an involuntary jerk and he felt the hot seed jetting out of him and into her.

With that final thrust, the huge desk shifted on its pillars, knocking the sturdy chair behind it into the adjacent coat-stand. The tall stand toppled sideways, sliding down the wall, and dislodging Rosalind's precious watercolour from its hook.

The cherished picture hit the filing cabinet, whence it bounced and landed face-down on the floor with a resounding crash.