Distraction - Sara/Jane (NC-17)
Title: Distraction (1/1)
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters/Pairing: Sara Tancredi/Jane Phillips
Genre: Femslash, alternate Universe, ficlet
Length: 3,070 words
Rating: NC-17
Summary:Pleasure is a sort of oblivion, a forgetfulness. Pain is remembrance, you cannot forget pain.
Author's Note:Once upon a time, I made a promise to jennaxrose that I would write her some Sara/Jane. Canon intervened, as we all know, but since it's her birthday and I really don't give a damn about canon if I don't agree with it (hee), I wrote her some femslash. Set in no particular universe, although I guess you could see it as an AU version of Safe House's already alternate universe. *g*
~*~
“We’ve lost them.”
Sara stares at the other woman, her brain trying to process the combination between her terse words and her calm expression. “What do you mean, lost them?” Her voice cracks on the last word and Jane crosses the room quickly, putting a soothing hand on her shoulder. “Lincoln’s last contact with the team was over three hours ago. Five minutes ago, we intercepted a Company communiqué stating that the Scofield and Burrows problem had been solved.”
Fear curls through Sara’s thoughts, blocking out anything else but the need to understand exactly what Jane is telling her. “Are you telling me they’re dead?”
“We don’t know anything for certain. The intercepted message could have been a plant.” A muscle twitches in Jane’s smooth cheek as the hand on Sara’s shoulder tightens. “But I wanted to prepare you for the possibility.”
Her stomach churning coldly, Sara stares at her for a moment, then shrugs off the reassuring hand. “I’m going to bed.”
“Sara-”
Her eyes blurring with angry tears, Sara shakes her head. “I can’t talk about this, Jane. Not now.”
The other woman studies her carefully, then steps back. “Of course. I’ll let you know the moment I hear anything.”
She needs to say thank you, Sara thinks, but the words are almost impossible to get out. “Thanks.”
The tiny bedroom in the temporary safe house provides no solace. Stripping down to her underwear, she throws back the covers with such force that the cheap synthetic bedspread literally crackles. Lying alone in the darkness, she thinks of Michael, her arms wrapped around herself in a vain attempt to stop the hollow ache in her chest from hurting. This can’t be how it ends. It just can’t. Not before they’ve even had the chance to begin.
It’s three o’clock when she finally admits defeat and throws back the covers. Her eyes and throat feel raw and swollen, and the thought of hot tea is tempting enough to have her pulling on an oversized t-shirt and padding her way to the small kitchen. It’s only when she’s pouring boiling water onto the teabag that she realises how easy it would be to add a little something extra. She knows there’s a bottle of brandy in the cupboard - she’d seen it earlier that day. A healthy dollop would help her sleep and stop her from dreaming of Michael and blood and bullets. It would also make her feel as though she was sliding backwards, something she can’t afford when everything else around her is such a fucking mess.
She doesn’t open the cupboard. Instead, she leans against the counter and studies at her brandy-less mug of tea, thinking of sitting alone in a bar a lifetime ago, staring down a glass of neat scotch as she struggled with her conscience and her feelings for a man who wanted her to betray everything she’d vowed to uphold.
She’s crying when Jane finds her, tears silently streaming down her face. She doesn’t demur when the other woman pulls her into her arms, murmuring soothing words, soft hands stroking her hand and back. “It’s okay, I’m here. I’m here.”
She cries for what feels like a long time, her head buried against Jane’s shoulder, tears burning her skin, her face aching. Jane doesn’t urge her to sit down or encourage her to stop crying. She simply holds her, the warmth of her body a solid anchor in the torrid storm crashing through Sara’s head.
It’s only when the storm has passed that Sara slowly becomes aware of the intimacy of their embrace. Jane is wearing a thin cotton t-shirt much like hers, and the press of her braless breasts against Sara’s suddenly feels less like comfort and more like something very different.
A flush stealing up the back of her neck, Sara puts her hands on Jane’s shoulders and eases herself away, conscious of the brush of the other woman’s bare leg against hers. Something in Jane’s bright gaze tells her she’s not imagining the undercurrent that’s suddenly flaring between them, and she knows she needs to choose her words carefully. “Thank you,” she whispers, trying not to shift away from the light touch of the hands still stroking her back. “Have you heard anything?”
Jane shakes her head as she lets her hands drop and takes a small step backwards, putting some space between them. “Not yet.”
Sara hesitates, trying to find a way to tell Jane she’s grateful for everything she’s done without giving her false hope or making it sound as though she disapproves or shit, she doesn’t know what she wants to say. She looks at the other woman, mute with confusion, and Jane gives her a knowing, almost weary smile. “Go to bed, Sara.”
Once again, Sara escapes to her tiny bedroom. Once again, she finds it impossible to sleep.
~*~
“I slept with both men and women before I got married,” Jane tells her at the breakfast table the next morning, as casually as though she’s announcing her intention to do the dishes. Sara starts at the blunt admission, almost fumbling her coffee mug, and Jane smiles. “That’s what you wanted to ask me, isn’t it?”
Sara wonders if she’s had a more awkward conversation. “It was.” Hoping she’s not as red as a tomato, she gives Jane an apologetic smile. “Sorry.”
Jane waves away the apology. “I’d be more surprised if you didn’t want to know.” She takes a sip of her own coffee, her blue gaze never leaving Sara’s face, then smiles again. “And the answer to your other question is yes, I find you very attractive.”
“Oh.” There should be many answers to that particular revelation, and yet she can’t think of a single one. “I, uh -” Her eyes meet Jane’s, and she hears herself chuckle nervously. “Thank you?”
“You’re welcome.” Jane’s eyes crinkle as she grins. “I know you’re not on the same page. I just thought it would be easier to get it out in the open, so to speak.”
Easier for who? Sara wants to ask, but she merely nods. “Uh, sure.”
Rising gracefully to her feet, Jane gives her an easy smile. “I have to make a few calls. Enjoy your breakfast.”
With that she’s gone, leaving Sara staring at her uneaten food and trying very hard not to analyze the comfort she’d found in the other woman’s soft embrace.
~*~
Forty-eight hours pass, two days in which she doesn’t know if Michael is dead or alive. He and Lincoln seem to have vanished off the face of the earth, and as much as she tries to tell herself that there’s hope as long as there’s uncertainty, it doesn’t stop the fear from clawing at her with every breath she takes.
The new tension between herself and Jane isn’t helping. She can no longer entirely relax when the other woman is in the room, her stubborn mind replaying their conversation and the feel of Jane’s body against hers over and over again. She begins to overanalyze every word Jane says to her, every glance she darts in her direction, and she starts to think she might be going a little bit mad.
Sara knows where her heart lies. She also knows that human curiosity tempered by flattery is a very powerful thing. She’s never kissed another woman - not even during one of the drunken parties she attended in college - but now she finds herself studying the graceful arch of Jane’s back, the rounded curve of her hips, the full swell of the pale breasts revealed by the v-neck of her t-shirt. She looks at Jane’s mouth, full-lipped and wide, and wonders what it would be like to kiss her. It is, she tells herself, a welcome distraction from her fear.
On the second night of their vigil, Jane finds her in the living room, curled up with a paperback in the corner of the couch. “Sara.”
Sara looks up from her book, and Jane’s bleak expression slams into her heart like a fist.
Oh, no. No, no, no, no.
“We’ve picked up several new pieces of intel. It’s not irrefutable proof, Sara, but it’s not looking good.” The other woman’s throat works as she swallows. “I’m so sorry,” she murmurs unsteadily as she drops to the couch beside her, her arm sliding around Sara’s shoulders.
Michael’s dead.
The words pound through her skull over and over again until an unearthly sound begins to pour from her mouth, wrenching ugly sobs that shake her whole body and steal her voice. Struggling to sit upright, she buries her face in her hands, her fingertips pressing hard into her skull, trying to make the noise stop. When she feels the light touch of Jane’s hand on the back of her neck, she doesn’t pull away. She’s frozen with anger and grief, and when she finally manages to speak, her voice sounds as though it belongs to someone else. “What happens now?”
“Williams will be here in an hour.” Jane’s fingertips are cool on the nape of her neck, her thumb brushing the hammering pulse beneath her jaw. “We'll be leaving once he arrives.”
Sara shakes her head, wanting to tell her that she can’t leave, not until she knows for sure, but the words won’t come, the only sound leaving her mouth a choked sob. She lets Jane pull her closer, doesn’t protest against the soft hands touching her face, wiping the tears from her skin. When she feels the brush of Jane’s lips on her cheek, she doesn’t pull away. She closes her eyes, her hands lying loosely in her lap, no longer caring whether she’s going mad or simply curious. Everything is hurting so much, and if she can’t shove a needle in her arm, then she’ll take the next best thing. When Jane finally kisses her on the mouth, she breathes a sigh of what feels almost like relief. She wants escape. She wants oblivion. If this is how she finds it, so be it.
Jane’s kiss is soft and gentle, yet there’s a challenge in it that sends a flutter of heat through Sara’s belly. Tilting back her head, she opens her mouth, sliding her tongue over the swell of other woman’s bottom lip. She tastes Jane’s gasp of surprise, then any hesitancy is gone, burned away in the heat of instinctive desire and fury. Their kiss is no longer gentle but a thing of hunger and desperation, and it doesn’t seem strange that Jane is unbuttoning her blouse and sliding her hands inside to cup her breasts.
Jane murmurs something in her ear, but Sara doesn’t quite catch it over the pounding of her heart and the maelstrom of sorrow in her head. When Jane’s knee slides between hers, her thigh pressing hard against the zipper of Sara’s jeans, she arches beneath her, an unsteady moan rising up in her throat. Oblivion, she thinks, and slides her hands beneath Jane’s shirt, skimming her palms over smooth skin and lean muscles. They don’t speak, and Sara is glad. She doesn’t want to talk, because talking means thinking and she doesn’t want to think.
When Jane’s bare skin slides against hers, Sara catches her breath, overwhelmed by the illicit pleasure that ripples through her. When she feels the first touch of Jane’s warm mouth between her legs, Sara lets out her breath on a long shuddering sigh, her fingers tangling in the other woman’s bright blonde hair. Heat skitters across her skin, tightening her breasts and belly, the thrum of desire growing heavy and thick between her legs. Jane knows exactly what she’s doing, and all Sara can do is let herself be swept along on a tide of sensation. She comes quickly, her face wet with tears as she cries out, her mouth forming no name but a faceless sound of release that rings in her ears.
Limp and strangely empty, she curls her arms around Jane’s neck as the other woman rests her cheek on her belly. The firestorm has drained away from her blood, and she closes her eyes tightly as Jane moves to lie beside her, the swell of her bare breast pressing against hers. She doesn’t feel embarrassed, not exactly, but she’s definitely out of her comfort zone. Opening her eyes, she meets Jane’s steady gaze, her pulse jerking at the subtle hunger glowing in her vivid blue eyes. When Jane kisses her, she tastes both the musk of her own body and a faint sweetness she remembers from their first kiss.
Taking a deep breath, she skims her hand up Jane’s stomach to cup one full breast, brushing her palm slowly over one tight nipple. Jane inhales sharply, her spine arching as she leans into Sara’s touch, her mouth seeking and finding hers once more. She feels the tension in the other woman’s body, the urgency in her kiss, and she feels a sudden unwelcome sense of taking but not giving. Gently pushing Jane onto her back, Sara slides a hesitant hand between them, her fingertips brushing the downy hair between the other woman’s legs, cupping the soft heat in her palm.
Reaching down, Jane curls her fingers around her wrist. “You don’t have to,” she says gently, the calm words betrayed by the trembling of her hand.
“I want to,” Sara whispers, knowing that it’s the truth, at least tonight, and perhaps that will be enough for both of them. Jane gives her a faintly shy, most un-Jane-like glance, then draws Sara’s hand to where she wants it the most.
Sara’s always thought of herself as a quick learner, and it seems that fact applies to more situations than she could have ever imagined. Jane’s breath is hot in her ear, her hips rocking against her hand in a steady rhythm, the scent of perfume and female desire rising sharp and sweet. The slick heat beneath her hand is both familiar and alien, and it fills her with a strange sense of power to know she understands exactly how to move her fingers to make Jane suck in her breath, exactly how to use her thumb to make her catch her bottom lip between her teeth. She kisses her when she comes, curling her fingers inside the sleek, tight heat that shivers around her touch, swallowing Jane’s groan of pleasure as a sob rises at the back of her own throat.
When they’ve both grown still and silent, Jane reaches down to the floor for their clothes, handing Sara her shirt first before pulling her own t-shirt over her head. She presses a lingering kiss to Sara’s damp forehead, then gracefully climbs off the couch. “Get some rest, okay? I’m going try to contact second team again.”
Sara nods, her head too full of too many things to speak. Her body is sated but Michael and Lincoln are gone, and there are no words to describe how she’s feeling. She hears Jane’s voice at the other end of the room, talking crisply and quietly, and it sounds as though she’s hearing it in a dream. Rising from the couch, she slowly pulls on her clothes, her fingers clumsy as they fumble with buttons and zippers. Her breasts are still tingling pleasantly, something that only sharpens the misery gnawing at her heart. As she smoothes an unsteady hand through her tangled hair, she hears Jane’s voice change, becoming louder and sharper. “Put him on. Now!”
Sara freezes, staring at her across the length of the room, scarcely daring to believe the hope she sees blazing in the other woman’s eyes. Catching her gaze, Jane beckons to her with her free hand. Sara is halfway across the room when she speaks again, Jane’s one-word exclamation stopping her in her tracks.
“Michael?”
Sara’s heart leaps into her mouth, stealing her breath. Alive. They're alive. She closes the distance between them at the same time Jane holds out the phone to her, her heart pounding as she takes it and presses it to her ear.
"Hello?"
"Hey." Michael's voice washes over her like warm water. "You okay?"
She can't stop the laugh that blubbles up in her throat. "Isn't that my line?" she asks shakily, and he laughs softly in her ear.
"We're a little worse for wear, but we're okay. I'll explain everything when I see you."
"As long as you're both okay," she tells him in a voice that cracks embarrassingly, "I can wait for the details."
"I'm sorry, but Lincoln needs to speak to Jane," he says apologetically, and she nods as if he can actually see her.
"Sure. I'll, uh, see you soon." She manages to say goodbye without making a fool of herself, quickly handing the phone to Jane. She sinks into the closest chair, her legs feeling like jelly, and watches as Jane talks to Lincoln. Her face is suffused with a quiet joy, and Sara suddenly realises perhaps she wasn’t the only one who’d been looking for an escape.
~*~
Shouldering her backpack, Sara hangs back, waiting until Williams has left the room before catching Jane’s eye. “I just want to tell you that, uh-” She trails off, realizing she doesn’t know what she wants to tell the other woman. Thank you for saving my life? Thank you for one of the best orgasms I’ve ever had? It’s not exactly a social situation she’s ever experienced in her history of dating.
Much to her relief, Jane seems to understand her dilemma. “It’s okay, Sara.” She smiles, and Sara is pleased to see it reaches her eyes. “Like I said, I know you’re not on the same page.” Jane picks up her laptop bag, then gives Sara a quizzical glance. “Will you tell Michael?”
Sara feels her face grow warm. “I think I’ll play that by ear.”
“I think that’s probably best.” A mischievous smile twists Jane’s lips. “Of course, if we were talking about Lincoln, that would be a completely different matter.”
“Oh, yes.” Sara chuckles, picturing Lincoln’s likely reaction all too well. “Will you tell him?”
Jane shakes her head, smoothing her hand down the front of her suit jacket. “I don’t think he needs to know, do you?”
"No." They share a complicit smile, and Sara is surprised to discover that she’s no longer embarrassed. “Thank you. For everything.”
Jane’s smile doesn’t falter. “You’re welcome.”
~*~
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters/Pairing: Sara Tancredi/Jane Phillips
Genre: Femslash, alternate Universe, ficlet
Length: 3,070 words
Rating: NC-17
Summary:Pleasure is a sort of oblivion, a forgetfulness. Pain is remembrance, you cannot forget pain.
Author's Note:Once upon a time, I made a promise to jennaxrose that I would write her some Sara/Jane. Canon intervened, as we all know, but since it's her birthday and I really don't give a damn about canon if I don't agree with it (hee), I wrote her some femslash. Set in no particular universe, although I guess you could see it as an AU version of Safe House's already alternate universe. *g*
~*~
“We’ve lost them.”
Sara stares at the other woman, her brain trying to process the combination between her terse words and her calm expression. “What do you mean, lost them?” Her voice cracks on the last word and Jane crosses the room quickly, putting a soothing hand on her shoulder. “Lincoln’s last contact with the team was over three hours ago. Five minutes ago, we intercepted a Company communiqué stating that the Scofield and Burrows problem had been solved.”
Fear curls through Sara’s thoughts, blocking out anything else but the need to understand exactly what Jane is telling her. “Are you telling me they’re dead?”
“We don’t know anything for certain. The intercepted message could have been a plant.” A muscle twitches in Jane’s smooth cheek as the hand on Sara’s shoulder tightens. “But I wanted to prepare you for the possibility.”
Her stomach churning coldly, Sara stares at her for a moment, then shrugs off the reassuring hand. “I’m going to bed.”
“Sara-”
Her eyes blurring with angry tears, Sara shakes her head. “I can’t talk about this, Jane. Not now.”
The other woman studies her carefully, then steps back. “Of course. I’ll let you know the moment I hear anything.”
She needs to say thank you, Sara thinks, but the words are almost impossible to get out. “Thanks.”
The tiny bedroom in the temporary safe house provides no solace. Stripping down to her underwear, she throws back the covers with such force that the cheap synthetic bedspread literally crackles. Lying alone in the darkness, she thinks of Michael, her arms wrapped around herself in a vain attempt to stop the hollow ache in her chest from hurting. This can’t be how it ends. It just can’t. Not before they’ve even had the chance to begin.
It’s three o’clock when she finally admits defeat and throws back the covers. Her eyes and throat feel raw and swollen, and the thought of hot tea is tempting enough to have her pulling on an oversized t-shirt and padding her way to the small kitchen. It’s only when she’s pouring boiling water onto the teabag that she realises how easy it would be to add a little something extra. She knows there’s a bottle of brandy in the cupboard - she’d seen it earlier that day. A healthy dollop would help her sleep and stop her from dreaming of Michael and blood and bullets. It would also make her feel as though she was sliding backwards, something she can’t afford when everything else around her is such a fucking mess.
She doesn’t open the cupboard. Instead, she leans against the counter and studies at her brandy-less mug of tea, thinking of sitting alone in a bar a lifetime ago, staring down a glass of neat scotch as she struggled with her conscience and her feelings for a man who wanted her to betray everything she’d vowed to uphold.
She’s crying when Jane finds her, tears silently streaming down her face. She doesn’t demur when the other woman pulls her into her arms, murmuring soothing words, soft hands stroking her hand and back. “It’s okay, I’m here. I’m here.”
She cries for what feels like a long time, her head buried against Jane’s shoulder, tears burning her skin, her face aching. Jane doesn’t urge her to sit down or encourage her to stop crying. She simply holds her, the warmth of her body a solid anchor in the torrid storm crashing through Sara’s head.
It’s only when the storm has passed that Sara slowly becomes aware of the intimacy of their embrace. Jane is wearing a thin cotton t-shirt much like hers, and the press of her braless breasts against Sara’s suddenly feels less like comfort and more like something very different.
A flush stealing up the back of her neck, Sara puts her hands on Jane’s shoulders and eases herself away, conscious of the brush of the other woman’s bare leg against hers. Something in Jane’s bright gaze tells her she’s not imagining the undercurrent that’s suddenly flaring between them, and she knows she needs to choose her words carefully. “Thank you,” she whispers, trying not to shift away from the light touch of the hands still stroking her back. “Have you heard anything?”
Jane shakes her head as she lets her hands drop and takes a small step backwards, putting some space between them. “Not yet.”
Sara hesitates, trying to find a way to tell Jane she’s grateful for everything she’s done without giving her false hope or making it sound as though she disapproves or shit, she doesn’t know what she wants to say. She looks at the other woman, mute with confusion, and Jane gives her a knowing, almost weary smile. “Go to bed, Sara.”
Once again, Sara escapes to her tiny bedroom. Once again, she finds it impossible to sleep.
~*~
“I slept with both men and women before I got married,” Jane tells her at the breakfast table the next morning, as casually as though she’s announcing her intention to do the dishes. Sara starts at the blunt admission, almost fumbling her coffee mug, and Jane smiles. “That’s what you wanted to ask me, isn’t it?”
Sara wonders if she’s had a more awkward conversation. “It was.” Hoping she’s not as red as a tomato, she gives Jane an apologetic smile. “Sorry.”
Jane waves away the apology. “I’d be more surprised if you didn’t want to know.” She takes a sip of her own coffee, her blue gaze never leaving Sara’s face, then smiles again. “And the answer to your other question is yes, I find you very attractive.”
“Oh.” There should be many answers to that particular revelation, and yet she can’t think of a single one. “I, uh -” Her eyes meet Jane’s, and she hears herself chuckle nervously. “Thank you?”
“You’re welcome.” Jane’s eyes crinkle as she grins. “I know you’re not on the same page. I just thought it would be easier to get it out in the open, so to speak.”
Easier for who? Sara wants to ask, but she merely nods. “Uh, sure.”
Rising gracefully to her feet, Jane gives her an easy smile. “I have to make a few calls. Enjoy your breakfast.”
With that she’s gone, leaving Sara staring at her uneaten food and trying very hard not to analyze the comfort she’d found in the other woman’s soft embrace.
~*~
Forty-eight hours pass, two days in which she doesn’t know if Michael is dead or alive. He and Lincoln seem to have vanished off the face of the earth, and as much as she tries to tell herself that there’s hope as long as there’s uncertainty, it doesn’t stop the fear from clawing at her with every breath she takes.
The new tension between herself and Jane isn’t helping. She can no longer entirely relax when the other woman is in the room, her stubborn mind replaying their conversation and the feel of Jane’s body against hers over and over again. She begins to overanalyze every word Jane says to her, every glance she darts in her direction, and she starts to think she might be going a little bit mad.
Sara knows where her heart lies. She also knows that human curiosity tempered by flattery is a very powerful thing. She’s never kissed another woman - not even during one of the drunken parties she attended in college - but now she finds herself studying the graceful arch of Jane’s back, the rounded curve of her hips, the full swell of the pale breasts revealed by the v-neck of her t-shirt. She looks at Jane’s mouth, full-lipped and wide, and wonders what it would be like to kiss her. It is, she tells herself, a welcome distraction from her fear.
On the second night of their vigil, Jane finds her in the living room, curled up with a paperback in the corner of the couch. “Sara.”
Sara looks up from her book, and Jane’s bleak expression slams into her heart like a fist.
Oh, no. No, no, no, no.
“We’ve picked up several new pieces of intel. It’s not irrefutable proof, Sara, but it’s not looking good.” The other woman’s throat works as she swallows. “I’m so sorry,” she murmurs unsteadily as she drops to the couch beside her, her arm sliding around Sara’s shoulders.
Michael’s dead.
The words pound through her skull over and over again until an unearthly sound begins to pour from her mouth, wrenching ugly sobs that shake her whole body and steal her voice. Struggling to sit upright, she buries her face in her hands, her fingertips pressing hard into her skull, trying to make the noise stop. When she feels the light touch of Jane’s hand on the back of her neck, she doesn’t pull away. She’s frozen with anger and grief, and when she finally manages to speak, her voice sounds as though it belongs to someone else. “What happens now?”
“Williams will be here in an hour.” Jane’s fingertips are cool on the nape of her neck, her thumb brushing the hammering pulse beneath her jaw. “We'll be leaving once he arrives.”
Sara shakes her head, wanting to tell her that she can’t leave, not until she knows for sure, but the words won’t come, the only sound leaving her mouth a choked sob. She lets Jane pull her closer, doesn’t protest against the soft hands touching her face, wiping the tears from her skin. When she feels the brush of Jane’s lips on her cheek, she doesn’t pull away. She closes her eyes, her hands lying loosely in her lap, no longer caring whether she’s going mad or simply curious. Everything is hurting so much, and if she can’t shove a needle in her arm, then she’ll take the next best thing. When Jane finally kisses her on the mouth, she breathes a sigh of what feels almost like relief. She wants escape. She wants oblivion. If this is how she finds it, so be it.
Jane’s kiss is soft and gentle, yet there’s a challenge in it that sends a flutter of heat through Sara’s belly. Tilting back her head, she opens her mouth, sliding her tongue over the swell of other woman’s bottom lip. She tastes Jane’s gasp of surprise, then any hesitancy is gone, burned away in the heat of instinctive desire and fury. Their kiss is no longer gentle but a thing of hunger and desperation, and it doesn’t seem strange that Jane is unbuttoning her blouse and sliding her hands inside to cup her breasts.
Jane murmurs something in her ear, but Sara doesn’t quite catch it over the pounding of her heart and the maelstrom of sorrow in her head. When Jane’s knee slides between hers, her thigh pressing hard against the zipper of Sara’s jeans, she arches beneath her, an unsteady moan rising up in her throat. Oblivion, she thinks, and slides her hands beneath Jane’s shirt, skimming her palms over smooth skin and lean muscles. They don’t speak, and Sara is glad. She doesn’t want to talk, because talking means thinking and she doesn’t want to think.
When Jane’s bare skin slides against hers, Sara catches her breath, overwhelmed by the illicit pleasure that ripples through her. When she feels the first touch of Jane’s warm mouth between her legs, Sara lets out her breath on a long shuddering sigh, her fingers tangling in the other woman’s bright blonde hair. Heat skitters across her skin, tightening her breasts and belly, the thrum of desire growing heavy and thick between her legs. Jane knows exactly what she’s doing, and all Sara can do is let herself be swept along on a tide of sensation. She comes quickly, her face wet with tears as she cries out, her mouth forming no name but a faceless sound of release that rings in her ears.
Limp and strangely empty, she curls her arms around Jane’s neck as the other woman rests her cheek on her belly. The firestorm has drained away from her blood, and she closes her eyes tightly as Jane moves to lie beside her, the swell of her bare breast pressing against hers. She doesn’t feel embarrassed, not exactly, but she’s definitely out of her comfort zone. Opening her eyes, she meets Jane’s steady gaze, her pulse jerking at the subtle hunger glowing in her vivid blue eyes. When Jane kisses her, she tastes both the musk of her own body and a faint sweetness she remembers from their first kiss.
Taking a deep breath, she skims her hand up Jane’s stomach to cup one full breast, brushing her palm slowly over one tight nipple. Jane inhales sharply, her spine arching as she leans into Sara’s touch, her mouth seeking and finding hers once more. She feels the tension in the other woman’s body, the urgency in her kiss, and she feels a sudden unwelcome sense of taking but not giving. Gently pushing Jane onto her back, Sara slides a hesitant hand between them, her fingertips brushing the downy hair between the other woman’s legs, cupping the soft heat in her palm.
Reaching down, Jane curls her fingers around her wrist. “You don’t have to,” she says gently, the calm words betrayed by the trembling of her hand.
“I want to,” Sara whispers, knowing that it’s the truth, at least tonight, and perhaps that will be enough for both of them. Jane gives her a faintly shy, most un-Jane-like glance, then draws Sara’s hand to where she wants it the most.
Sara’s always thought of herself as a quick learner, and it seems that fact applies to more situations than she could have ever imagined. Jane’s breath is hot in her ear, her hips rocking against her hand in a steady rhythm, the scent of perfume and female desire rising sharp and sweet. The slick heat beneath her hand is both familiar and alien, and it fills her with a strange sense of power to know she understands exactly how to move her fingers to make Jane suck in her breath, exactly how to use her thumb to make her catch her bottom lip between her teeth. She kisses her when she comes, curling her fingers inside the sleek, tight heat that shivers around her touch, swallowing Jane’s groan of pleasure as a sob rises at the back of her own throat.
When they’ve both grown still and silent, Jane reaches down to the floor for their clothes, handing Sara her shirt first before pulling her own t-shirt over her head. She presses a lingering kiss to Sara’s damp forehead, then gracefully climbs off the couch. “Get some rest, okay? I’m going try to contact second team again.”
Sara nods, her head too full of too many things to speak. Her body is sated but Michael and Lincoln are gone, and there are no words to describe how she’s feeling. She hears Jane’s voice at the other end of the room, talking crisply and quietly, and it sounds as though she’s hearing it in a dream. Rising from the couch, she slowly pulls on her clothes, her fingers clumsy as they fumble with buttons and zippers. Her breasts are still tingling pleasantly, something that only sharpens the misery gnawing at her heart. As she smoothes an unsteady hand through her tangled hair, she hears Jane’s voice change, becoming louder and sharper. “Put him on. Now!”
Sara freezes, staring at her across the length of the room, scarcely daring to believe the hope she sees blazing in the other woman’s eyes. Catching her gaze, Jane beckons to her with her free hand. Sara is halfway across the room when she speaks again, Jane’s one-word exclamation stopping her in her tracks.
“Michael?”
Sara’s heart leaps into her mouth, stealing her breath. Alive. They're alive. She closes the distance between them at the same time Jane holds out the phone to her, her heart pounding as she takes it and presses it to her ear.
"Hello?"
"Hey." Michael's voice washes over her like warm water. "You okay?"
She can't stop the laugh that blubbles up in her throat. "Isn't that my line?" she asks shakily, and he laughs softly in her ear.
"We're a little worse for wear, but we're okay. I'll explain everything when I see you."
"As long as you're both okay," she tells him in a voice that cracks embarrassingly, "I can wait for the details."
"I'm sorry, but Lincoln needs to speak to Jane," he says apologetically, and she nods as if he can actually see her.
"Sure. I'll, uh, see you soon." She manages to say goodbye without making a fool of herself, quickly handing the phone to Jane. She sinks into the closest chair, her legs feeling like jelly, and watches as Jane talks to Lincoln. Her face is suffused with a quiet joy, and Sara suddenly realises perhaps she wasn’t the only one who’d been looking for an escape.
~*~
Shouldering her backpack, Sara hangs back, waiting until Williams has left the room before catching Jane’s eye. “I just want to tell you that, uh-” She trails off, realizing she doesn’t know what she wants to tell the other woman. Thank you for saving my life? Thank you for one of the best orgasms I’ve ever had? It’s not exactly a social situation she’s ever experienced in her history of dating.
Much to her relief, Jane seems to understand her dilemma. “It’s okay, Sara.” She smiles, and Sara is pleased to see it reaches her eyes. “Like I said, I know you’re not on the same page.” Jane picks up her laptop bag, then gives Sara a quizzical glance. “Will you tell Michael?”
Sara feels her face grow warm. “I think I’ll play that by ear.”
“I think that’s probably best.” A mischievous smile twists Jane’s lips. “Of course, if we were talking about Lincoln, that would be a completely different matter.”
“Oh, yes.” Sara chuckles, picturing Lincoln’s likely reaction all too well. “Will you tell him?”
Jane shakes her head, smoothing her hand down the front of her suit jacket. “I don’t think he needs to know, do you?”
"No." They share a complicit smile, and Sara is surprised to discover that she’s no longer embarrassed. “Thank you. For everything.”
Jane’s smile doesn’t falter. “You’re welcome.”
~*~