You shake your head as you read Jack's text. Instead of getting ready for dinner like you ought to be, you're giggling over a text of all things. The fact of the matter is that it's getting harder and harder to ignore your feelings for Jack. For a long time now, you've suppressed your attraction to him, but it's grown into a monumental task since he's decided to be your sugar daddy.
Except he's not. Jack was so offput by the very notion of that idea when you mentioned it in his truck. But what else is this? A man paying for all your luxuries, insisting you show them off for him? That sounds a lot like a sugar daddy.
Whatever, you think. After all, that's what dinner tonight is for. To talk. Definitely not to impress Jack in the nice makeup he bought and the pretty dress you picked up today. As nice as that sounds, you need to speak with him. Desperately. You can't keep accepting money from your boss with no rules laid out. Not with these budding feelings you can.
You shoot him a text back.
To Abbot (Work): Yeah! You'll see it tonight :-)
His reply is instant.
From Abbot (Work): Good.
A moment later, your phone pings again.
From Abbot (Work): How much was it?
You pause, eyes drifting to the dress hanging from the hook on your door. It's only been three days since he took you to Sephora, and Jack has been finding every opportunity to treat you since. A coffee here, lunch there, even an uber home from the club Friday night. It adds up, so today you thought it would be nice to splurge with all the cash you would have spent.
You almost got away with it, but Jack just so happened to text you while you were out. Once he found out you were getting a dress for tonight, he insisted on footing the bill.
To Abbot (Work): If I tell you, i pay for dinner
From Abbot (Work): Cute. How much was it?
With a sigh, you stand, closing the short distance from your bed to the closet where you snap a picture of the price tag to send Jack's way. He doesn't text you back, but you do receive a Venmo notification, covering the cost and then some.
You shake your head, smiling at your phone as you type one last reply.
To Abbot (Work): Thank you <3
*****
"If you'll excuse me," you say, folding your napkin and placing it on the table. "But I'm going to powder my nose."
Jack smiles, chuckling softly, "I'll be here. Should I order dessert?"
You bite your lip, nodding, "Please. You decide. They all look fantastic."
Jack sends you off with a soft, "Yes, ma'am."
Dinner is going well, great even. Jack is a gentleman, charming and kind. He holds great conversation, knows when to ask question, knows what type of questions to ask. It doesn't help that he looks stellar doing it. He's shaved, gotten a haircut since you last saw him, and is wearing a cologne that smells downright sinful.
Though, this evening has been a display in how long you and Jack can beat around the bush. The big, fat, and shockingly wealthy bush. But if doing so means you get to go on the best date you've had all year, then that's fine.
Date.
Is that what this is?
Before you can mull it over, as you're rounding the corner to the restrooms, you spot a familiar woman at a nearby table. She's tall and slender, with close-cropped hair and wearing a red dress that compliments her dark skin.
Heather, you realize. Heather Collins. Heather Collins who just made attending and is now technically one of your other bosses.
And you'd bet your bottom dollar that the man with scruffy hair sitting across from her with his back towards you is Robby.
Well, shit.
You pick up the pace, shuffling until you're in the bathroom, where you swiftly lock yourself into a stall.
Shit, shit, shit!
It may be impolite, but the only idea you have right now is to grab your phone and call Jack. Thankfully, he picks up right away.
"Are you ok–?"
"Heather is here," you whisper harshly. "With Robby."
The other end of the line goes quiet. Then, "Shit."
"Yeah," you fan yourself. It's hot in the bathroom, and you might have to powder your nose after all. "Jack, this is bad. Like, really bad."
"No, it's not."
"Yes, it is." You laugh. The sound of it is thin and pitchy, "He's gonna fire me. Heather and Robby are gonna tell HR and fire me. Fuck! I'm–"
"Sweetheart," Jack barks on the other end of the line. He lowers his voice, "Listen, I'll meet you outside the bathroom. Just… powder and find me when you're done."
"But–"
The line goes dead. Sighing, you step out of the stall. Washing your hands, you observe yourself. You're wearing a new foundation today, the one that Jack bought you. In fact, all your makeup, plus your perfume, was bought by Jack. And, you have to admit, it's holding up.
When you leave the bathroom, you're surprised to see Jack right there, sitting in his chair with your jacket neatly folded in his lap.
"Oh, hello," you say. You frown as he hands you your jacket. "What's this for?"
"We're leaving," Jack states.
You blink, "We are?"
"Do you want to go back there?" When you fail to answer, Jack adds, "Sweetheart, it's okay. I understand if you don't want to be seen with me."
You rush to assure him, "No, it's not that. It's–" You clamp your mouth shut, sighing. "Jack, you are giving me money and taking me to nice dinners. Now, Heather might not care. Robby might not care, but… others will. You know what they'll think, how they'll treat me..."
Jack's face softens. He clicks his tongue and motions towards your jacket. "Put that on. We're getting dessert somewhere else."
"But—"
"I already paid," Jack wheels to the emergency exit at the end of the hallway. He jerks his head at it, "Do you think this door's accessible?" There's a teasing tilt to the corner of his mouth, like he already knows the answer.
When you pop the door open, you sigh because, "It's got a step-down."
"Just one? Not bad," Jack wheels to the edge, sizing up the six-inch fall. "If I go down, this stays between us."
"Jack, if you go down because you went down a stair in a wheelchair, I'm taking a picture and sending it to Shen."
Jack laughs, "I'm sure you will."
*****
You point to the blue and pink abomination on Jack's waffle cone, "What's that?"
"Cotton candy," Jack licks a stripe along the top scoop, then tilts the ice cream your way. "Want some?"
"Cotton candy ice cream?" You scoff, "Thank you, Jack, but I'm an adult."
He smirks, "Oh yeah?"
"Yeah," you say, "And I'm going to eat my adult ice cream, with its adult flavor."
"Of course," Jack teases. "Those rainbow sprinkles look very adult-like to me."
"They are." To make you point, you swipe your tongue through the sprinkles, closing your eyes as you hum at the sweetness that coats your mouth.
When you eyes open again, Jack is staring at you with parted lips. He clears his throat when you catch his gaze, and your face heats as he turns away.
"We, um, should talk," he cautions
"We should," you agree, biting your lip.
Jack nods, "Ladies first."
You roll your eyes, delaying to conversation long enough to calm your nerves. It's not like you don't already know what you want to ask.
"In the car the other day," you start. "You said you don't expect anything from me. That this isn't romantic."
"I did," Jack affirms. "I don't expect that type of relationship with you."
You shake your head, "Then what is this?"
Jack nods, acknowledging the question, but his eyes glaze over. You wait, patiently counting the seconds that pass until Jack is ready.
"I have a difficult time with companionship. With connecting, you know?" He shrugs, "I enjoy spending time with you, talking with you at work, dinner tonight, when we went to Sephiroth."
You chuckle, "Sephora."
"What?"
"Jack, it's Sephora not… whatever you just said."
"That's what I said."
"Nope." You shake your head, "Not even close, Abbot."
"I'm pretty sure that's what I said."
"Jack, I can personally guarantee you that—" As you're speaking, you spot the slightest twitch of Jack's lips. "Oh, you asshole. And here I am, thinking I was saving you from future humiliation. I mean, do you know what Princess would do if you said that in front of her?"
Jack releases the smile he's been biting back, elbowing your side, "What? I thought it was funny."
"I thought you were going senile on me."
"Oh, not yet," Jack quips. "Don't worry, you'll get more cash from me when I do. Consider it a hazard bonus."
It's a joke. You know this, yet as the self-deprecating words come out of Jack's mouth, you frown.
"I would spend time without the money, Jack," you confess. What you want to say is that Jack doesn't need to use the money as an apology for his company, to buy his way into being tolerable. "It's nice, but I don't need it."
"Thank you," he squints, almost as though he's testing you, trying to put you together. "But I would like to help you out. You're doing me a big favor here, sweetheart. You give me company. I give you financial assistance."
"But I also get the company out of it."
"No," Jack bites the inside of his cheek. "Not the same way I do."
You hum, cataloguing his words for later in the same mental file that sits the whispers of his wife. You've heard of her in passing, John or Parker mentioning her death once or twice when telling you stories of PTMC before your arrival. Come to think of it, the first time Jack ever mentioned her to you was during that conversation about mascara.
Had, he said. I had a wife.
You know the loss of her has a lot to do with this whole arrangement. You wonder if Jack does, too.
Clearing your throat, you try to lighten the mood, "You know, for someone who doesn't like to be called a sugar daddy, you sure do act like one."
Jack takes the bait, smirking as he says, "You're trouble."
"Trouble?" You echo. "If you think that, you're not gonna like my next question."
Jack raises his eyebrows, skewing his head. At work, if he gave you that look, you'd be terrified, but the pastel ice cream in his hands really cuts through the intimidation.
"What is it?" He asks.
You lick your lips, "Can I see other people?"
"No," comes Jack's instant reply. When your mouth parts in surprise, he rushes to correct himself, "I mean– I'm not trying to limit you, but… I would imagine that someone might not like a man giving their girlfriend money and taking her out all the time."
"Yeah," you agree. Your heart is pounding. "Because, I mean, it's… it's sort of like we're dating."
Jack's eyebrows shoot up before quickly falling, "Yeah, it is." He grows quiet for a moment, "We could."
Something cold and sticky drips down your fingers. Your ice cream has started melting, but you let it as you wallow in the silence that follows Jack's musing.
In another life, you would love to date him, actually date him, but unfortunately this is not that life. Jack's your boss. You're his resident, his student. Despite Jack's attempt at comforting you in the restaurant, even he knows that any relationship between the two of you would be subject to heavy scrutinization, from peers and the powers that be at PTMC. If not for him, then you.
Jack must be thinking the same thing you are, because he's the one to say, "But we probably shouldn't."
He doesn't look at you when he says it, but at his own melting cone of ice cream, with its now-dripping swirls of pink and blue. Clearing his throat, Jack turns to face you. With a seemingly newfound vigor, he asks, "So we should set more boundaries."
You nod, forcing a smile on your face, "Boundaries. Yes. I like that."
Jack raises his cone, licking away the sticky beads of ice cream dripping down his fingers. You look away as he prompts, "You first."
"Oh, um…" You wrack your brain, trying to come up with something to say that isn't— actually, Jack, I'm in love with you. Let's date anyways! Instead, you settle on, "Intimacy?"
Jack makes a noise of approval. "Well, we're not dating, so I don't expect any intimacy, but… ah, never mind."
"What is it?"
"Nothing."
You purse your lips, observing Jack. He pointedly avoids you, choosing instead to finish the top scoop of his ice cream instead.
"I have a boundary suggestion," you say. That grabs Jack's attention. He raises an eyebrow, watching you from the corner of his eye. "Honesty."
Jack guffaws, "Honesty?"
"Yes, Jack," you deadpan. "Honesty. Starting now. I want to hear about all of your intimate feelings about intimacy."
Jack shakes his head, muttering something to himself once more about trouble. Raising his voice, he says, "Fine. Honesty. Just don't, you know, call me an old creep for it."
You cross your heart, "Never."
Jack takes a deep breath. He holds it for a short moment before confessing, "I don't mind physicality. A hug before a da– we see each other. Hand holding, too." Jack's eyes grow wide, and he stumbles over his words to say, "I– If that's okay with you, of course."
Redness creeps up Jack's neck, even dusting the tops of his cheeks. He's flustered, you realize, somewhat amused. All over a little hand holding.
"Sounds kosher to me," you say, bumping Jack's shoulder to hopefully calm his nerves. "Hugs, hand holding, and platonic companionship."
"You forgot the allowance," Jack adds.
"Allowance?"
"Oh," Jack clears his throat, shifting. His ice cream has greatly dwindled. There's only a small bit of blue and pink left in his cone. "I didn't mention that did I?"
"I get an allowance?"
"If you want," he confirms. "I was thinking three… four thousand a month?"
You squeak, "Four thousand?"
"Is that too low?"
"Too–? Jack, that's twice what I pay in rent!" You shake your head, "That's too much, I– I can't accept that."
"Yes, you can."
"No," you press. "I'm not putting you into financial ruin so that we can… hang out."
Jack flinches, "That's not–" He pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. "Sweetheart, I am a single man, with little expenses, who makes over six figures. Well over. I built myself an at home gym, bought myself a Rolex for my fiftieth. I pay people to mow my lawn, clean my house, service the pool that I don't even use, but at the end of the day I still have more money than I know what to do with. Let me do this, and believe me when I say that I can afford it."
"Oh," you say, because it's all that you can muster.
"So four thousand? Plus other gifts."
"Jack–!"
"Stop," he raises a now ice cream-less hand. "You're insulting me."
Four thousand dollars plus gifts for… what? For you to look pretty and go shopping with Jack? Let him take you out to dinners? He's still your boss. This has got to be an ethical violation in so many ways even despite the whole platonic thing.
Jack adds softly, "I'm thinking based on your availability we can start with dinner once a week. Breakfast after a shift a few times a month too, if you'd like. If you're sick or busy or just don't want to see me, I understand, but I ask for transparency."
"Dinner," you repeat, "And breakfast."
Jack nods, "Mhm. We can see each other more if you'd like, but we can talk about that later. Right now, I want you to think about it."
That wakes you up from your stupor, "Think about it?"
Jack frowns, "What, you thought I was putting you on the spot?"
You shrug, "Maybe."
The frown deepens, stretching the lines on Jack's face. "That's not how this is going to work, sweetheart. We're operating on your terms, so I want you to think about it. Carefully." His voice lowers, soft enough that it barely reaches your ears. The sound alone makes your chest burn, "And if you want to stop or slow down or even take a break, you let me know. Okay?"
You're nodding before you even know it, "Okay."
"Good," Jack's eyes drag down your face. There's a lightness to him that wasn't there before, and the man breaks out into a grin. He juts his chin at the melting abomination of sprinkles and sticky ice cream in your hand. "Now, finish that before it gets all over your nice new dress."
the fact that we could’ve scored with the slowest slow burn in the history of slowest slow burns because jack would’ve not act on his attraction to mira because of power imbalance until he’s no longer her superior oh the absolute longing we could’ve had are you fucking kidding me
intox kink... and.... jack abbot................ (afab!reader) (tw: intox kink and weed)
*****
Jack understands the importance of a good wind down. Maybe that's why after dinner he hands you some chocolate and tells you to eat it all.
You know where this is headed, have done it plenty before, but you still ask how potent the chocolate is. Jack just shakes his head and tells you to be good. So, you pop them in your mouth, letting the chocolate, sweet with a bitter aftertaste you’ve come to know well from these type of evenings.
He'll take you to the bedroom then, not to fuck, but simply so that he can take his leg off without having to worry about wrangling your loose body into bed later. You sit with your back to his chest as Jack puts a movie on. Every solid inch of him behind you acts as a grounding force, one that you'll be grateful for once those chocolates start running their course.
You start to feel something at thirty minutes, a haziness that clouds your mind, has you relaxing into your partner's embrace, giggling a little too hard at the movie. Jack doesn't say anything, just adjusts his grip on you, letting his hand sit higher on your thigh than before.
It's around forty-five minutes, when Jack's fingers finally graze your cunt, that you begin to whine and squirm. He just shushes you, making you drink some water and lecturing you on hydration while his fingers press into your slit.
You're well past high by the time your first orgasm washes over you. Who knows how long It's been since you took the edibles? Just kidding. Jack does. He has a timer on his phone as well as the dosage you took written down. He likes to know how your body responds, so the next time he has you like this, he knows exactly how to overload your scrambled little brain with pleasure.
For now, he just needs to worry about you, about how many orgasms he can pull out of you before you can't keep your eyes open any longer.
Jack honey I need you to wake the fuck up and get your ass to work please assure your girl she's the future of emergency medicine and she has to become an attending
hi sweet freya!! i hope you’re doing well and having the best new year ever. i miss nelle and joel so dearly 💔 no pressure at all, but could we perchance get a little crumb of the syat epilogue? 🥹
SWEET LUCY this is from forever ago (forgive me forgive me forgive me) but I've been working away slowly at the epilogue for syat and finally have a peek for you :,)
for the epilogue, we'll meet up with nelle & the millers a few years later... in 2003, on one joel miller's birthday. but fret not! I have a feeling he has a pretty good birthday in this world <33
Summary: You send him photos while he's at work and he spends the rest of his shift dwelling on them. With all that pent up energy, what else is he supposed to do when he gets home other than teach you a lesson?
CW: smut, pwp, unprotected piv, creampie, heavy on the overstim (with a vibrator), dirty talk, sir kink, power dynamics, dom!jack, cowgirl position.
Note: Hi, I'm back with more husband!Jack x wife!reader. I just know that man is absolutely obsessed with his wife okayy. Kind of a part two to silver soul? But you don't have read one to read the other, I just imagine them being in the same uhh universe. Hope you enjoy! Feel free to slide into my inbox guys. I'd love to chat and interact more! :> Credit to @/saradika-graphics for the divider.
Word Count: 3.7k
Ao3 Link: read here!
There are still eight hours left in his shift when his phone vibrates in his pocket. Jack feels dead on his feet already. His body just isn’t used to being up at this time, especially after a work week of night shifts. His circadian rhythm is all out of whack, but he’s owed Robby the favour for a while now. It’s a blessing in disguise though, or so that’s what he tells himself to get through each grueling hour.
He stands a chance at getting home early enough to take you out to dinner. Reservations are booked and paid for—at that fancy rooftop restaurant you’d been showing him pictures of the other day. Your not so subtle way of letting him know that’s where you wanted to go for your next date night. It’s hard to say, for sure, if the after work plans really make it more or less difficult to endure today’s shift.
Jack rounds a corner and steps back against the wall, slipping his phone from his pocket. He’s caught himself in one of those rare moments where he’s not being pulled in every which direction—a sort of paradox that he oftentimes finds himself doubting even exists until he’s amidst it.
The screen lights up and there’s a message from you. You’ve attached a photo. His brows furrow. It’s probably nothing important. Something you want or something silly you saw that made you think of him. He should tuck his phone into his pocket and get back to work, but when does Jack ever do the things he should? A scarce occurrence. Surveying the hall one last time, he returns his attention to his phone. The thumb that’s hovering over the notification presses down and the messaging app opens.
It takes his brain a moment to process what pops up on his phone screen. He thinks that he can feel his heart jump to his throat. His finger twitches over the power button, but he doesn’t pull the trigger—can’t bring himself to, nor tear his eyes away. It’s a photo. One of you. Tits wrapped up in pretty white lace, scalloped along the edge. You’re laying on your shared bed, crumpled sheets beneath you. His cock stirs in his pants, and he reaches down to discreetly adjust himself. Another photo appears before he can fully gather himself and begin to reckon with the first one. This time your hand has slithered into a matching pair of sheer white panties that do not disguise anything. Nothing is left up to the imagination.
The colour frames you as the very picture of innocence. A pretty little thing, yet you are anything but innocent. Hell, you might as well be conspiring upon his downfall. He swears he’s just experienced all five stages of grief in the span of the five seconds he’s spent with his eyes glued to his phone screen. As if he didn’t miss you enough, you find a way to torment him further. He begins to type out a response, but he flounders and his fingers tremble over the screen. He’s stunted, caught halfway between scolding you, teasing you, or outright complimenting you. None of it feels right. His mind races.
Someone moves past him, so he clicks his phone off and shoves it into his pocket in a manner that’s not exactly inconspicuous.
Langdon gives him a look. “You okay?”
Jack clears his throat and nods. “Yeah, man.” He pushes off the wall and slinks away, ducking his head slightly.
Dana catches his eye immediately, calling out to him. “Abbot! Need you in trauma one, multi-collision accident.”
And just like that he is thrown back into the fray.
There’s never been a day in which you don’t follow him into the ER like a shadow. You, the love of his life. You, the light at the end of a very long and dark tunnel. But today you haunt him. The phone in his pocket holds an extra weight. Normally you are his sanctity—blissful respite from his chaotic line of work, but you had opened a wound hours ago and it’s been festering ever since.
He’s been off his game—making a fool of himself, and stumbling through his shift like an amateur. The cool and collected attending physician, Dr. Jack Abbot, reduced to a bumbling mess. Everyone can tell. He tries not to dwell, but he just can’t get the image of you out of his mind. It erodes him and every ounce of constraint. The end of the day can’t come soon enough.
And when he’s finally off, he’s not entirely sure why his brain conjures up the image it does. One of you wanting and waiting for him at home—still done up in that lacy set eight hours later. Maybe because he’s been so honed in on those photos, on you, that he’s become sickeningly obsessed with the thought.
Except when he gets home and trudges upstairs you are not laying on the bed. Whatever fantasy had deluded his mind splinters. The bathroom door is open and warm light pools into the adjoined room. You’re stood in front of the mirror in one of your little slip dresses, mascara wand in hand. It’s like nothing happened at all. You barely even acknowledge his arrival with more than a glance at him in the reflection as you busy yourself with getting ready for your outing.
He strides right up behind you, and winds his arms around your middle. Nosing at the side of your neck, he takes in your scent. You’re wearing the perfume he gifted you for your birthday two years ago. Your favourite and his.
“You,” he begins, sliding his gaze up to meet yours in the mirror's reflection, “are sick and twisted.”
A smile graces your lips. He’s hard already, erection pressing against you from behind. “It doesn’t take much, does it?” Your voice is lilting, teasing him and trying to work him up. And you succeed. Effortlessly. He is obsessed with you, and you know it. That’s the danger. That’s how you’ve got him wrapped around your finger, but he can play your games too.
He squeezes your hips, and tugs you impossibly closer, relishing the way you gasp and your body jolts. His hand moves to your thigh before roaming up and under the skirt of your dress. He thumbs at your underwear, humming at the feel of the lacy material.
“Jack,” you warn, your voice clipped, “that’s for after dinner.”
“What? This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he asks, eyes tracking your movements as you place the mascara wand down and twist around in his hold to face him. He immediately steals the moment, seizing the opportunity to back you up and park you up against the bathroom vanity. “You wanted my attention. Now you’ve got it.”
He leans down and presses his lips to yours even as you brace a hand against his chest. Still, his hands are already scheming along the hem of your dress, working it up past your hips. “Don't you go getting shy on me now,” he whispers, lips brushing yours as he speaks. He brings a hand up between your legs and cups your heat. He can feel how wet you’ve gotten immediately, tucking two thick fingers right along your slit. You wobble, and your practiced composure slips with the quietest squeak.
“Jack…” you say in hushed protest, but it’s halfhearted. He knows you well enough to piece together that it's just an act you like to put on. Reluctant and above his depravity, but you aren’t. He has the receipts in his phone. Today you’ve proved you might just be worse than him. He lets out a chuckle and hoists you up, patting your thigh as you lock your legs around his waist.
He approaches the bed and you jostle with each stilted step he takes, breath hitching when he halts and drops you to the mattress. His hands are already hiking your dress up again, and you sit up so he can pull it over your head and toss it aside. A low groan rumbles through his chest as he sits back to take in the sight of you.
“A surprise for after dinner, huh?” he questions with a scoff, shaking his head. “You went and spoiled it, honey.”
The irony is that you have nothing to say for yourself—you lay there, staring up at him with all that heat in your eyes, and no words to back yourself up. Just a needy little thing, squirming below him as you get ready to part your legs for him without question or hesitation.
And he watches slowly as you do, knees falling away from one another. His eyes flit down to the centerpiece of this painting you’ve created for him. Sheer panties cling to your slickened cunt that you’ve offered up to him on a silver platter. You expect him to give in just like that—to cave at the mere sight of your pussy—to drop to his knees and worship at your altar like he has so many times before. It would be a bold-faced lie to say he doesn’t want to do just that, but after the little stunt you pulled today, he’s not so inclined to give in as easily as he usually does.
He clicks it once and then twice. The vibrations grow more intense each time. He cycles through the settings about six times before it returns to the lowest one. “This just didn’t quite do it for you today, huh?”
A glimpse of something bright draws his attention to the nightstand. A little pink silicone wand sits on the surface, plugged in and charging. He looks back to you, raising a brow. He reaches past you, body crowding yours before retreating again. The weight of it settles in the palm of his hand, his fingers curling over the handle as he turns it over and assesses it. He’s not unfamiliar with it by any means. No, he’s recognized it in the bottom of your bedside drawer on numerous occasions. It’s only natural with him being away so often and for so long. Something to stave you over while he’s gone.
He slides a thumb over the smooth, almost velvet, silicone until he finds the power button, a shallow divot in its surface. The stare you’re giving him is like a physical prick on his skin. You remain silent as you watch him with a racing heart and bated breath. Holding the button down for a few seconds brings the toy to life. It begins to vibrate lowly in his grasp.
The buzzing is entirely too loud in the stillness of the bedroom, and you have the audacity to look embarrassed. As if you have anything to be ashamed of in front of your own husband.
“That’s okay, sweetheart,” he says, lowering the toy and slowly beginning to skim it up your twitching thigh. “Though if I didn’t know any better, I might get the impression that I’ve been neglecting you—that I don’t come home every day and fuck you right.”
The tip of the vibrator grazes the junction between your thigh and where you’re needing attention most. He pauses, pupils dilating at the helpless whine you let out.
“M’sorry…” you whimper, hips jerking. Jack tsks, shaking his head. You’re apologizing only because you think that’s what he wants to hear—submitting to him—rolling over and baring your stomach because it’s the only thing you can think to do. You’re not sincere in your sentiments. You’re loving every moment of what’s come of those pictures.
“That’s not—!” your response is shuttered the instant he taps your clit. Twice before pressing firmly and holding still.
“My job is important.” He moves down then back up again. “I can’t afford to be distracted.”
Those damned pictures. It's frustrating how gorgeous you are. Even more so the way it requires barely any effort on your part to throw him for a loop. He’s seen shit. He's been through thick and thin in the ER, overseas, and through all of it he kept composed. Today had clearly outlined his greatest weakness. You.
“Are you?” he presses, looking for something more—looking to drag it out of you. He clicks the button, and the vibrations heighten. You moan and writhe on the bed. Your panties are completely soaked through now. “You don’t look it.”
“Yes—ah! Yes, sir…! So sorry, sir.” Now you’re just laying it on thick. Nonetheless, it stokes the fire in his belly, arousal like flames rising higher and higher. His cock stirs and your hand reaches for it greedily, barely managing to palm at it before his snaps down and shoves yours away. The look he gives you is lesson enough to keep your hands to yourself for the time being.
“Mhm.” His lack of response has your stomach flipping.
He's chosen not to designate any words to your second attempt at an apology, instead returning his focus to the matter at hand—your apparent and voracious neediness. With another click, he dials the vibrations up again. He circles your clit with the wand, lathering it with all his attention until you’re keening. You tense, your toes curl, your hands grapple with the comforter below. You completely unravel.
There’s a split second where you wilt, and your body mires to the bed. You’re sinking and sinking, head lulling to the side as you fade in and out of the moment unfolding before you. Then your brain rushes to catch up, your hips jerking the instant you register that the buzzing against your clit hasn’t stopped.
Jack looks all too smug as he watches you crumble. You look at him ready to ask him what he’s doing, but before the words can leave your mouth—another click. You cry out. It’s already beginning to feel too much, but in the next moment your body adjusts, relaxing as he begins working you from one orgasm into the next.
Before long you are coming unstitched at the seams again, making all sorts of pathetic sounds that feed into him. It’s like music to his ears. Finally, he withdraws and sets the vibrator down on the bed, only so he can pluck at your panties and yank them down, muttering about how they were getting in the way.
You watch bleary eyed as he reaches for the toy again. A soft sound of protest escapes you. He hovers it a couple centimetres from your clit, threatening to bear down again.
“How many times do you think you can come?”
You hum, brows knitting together as you process his words. He goes on without waiting for your response.
“You know, there’s some anecdotal evidence that suggests a woman can orgasm as many as twenty times in a row.” His voice has lost its usual edge. He sounds almost clinical. You swallow hard. That little tidbit of information sobers you up from your post-orgasmic daze immediately, heart jumping. “What do you think? Should we put it to the test?”
“Jack… I can’t,” you whisper, curling in on yourself, but he rends you back open and wrenches your legs apart.
“C’mon, you can give me one more at least,” he says, smirk pulling at the corner of his lips because it’s a little ridiculous—bartering for his wife's third orgasm, but he can see that look in your eyes. You’ll entertain his bargaining because you’re exactly where you want to be.
“How many was that?”
Your mind has drawn a blank. Your cunt clenches around nothing for the—you don't know how many'th time. Jack has worked you over again and again, but not a single number rests on the tip of your tongue. You can't even answer how long he's been at it, sitting before you, toying with your wrecked and spoiled body. Over and over.
Sweat cools on your skin and your breathing has turned ragged. Pleasure and ache have converged into one, but they've begun to untangle again. The sensations oscillate between the two. Your perception is distorted. You don’t know. The answer continues to evade you. He watches as you tremor, convulsions rippling through every muscle. You’re a mess. A beautiful one. A puddle of limbs and whimpers, completely at his mercy.
You’re all his.
“Pretty baby… I’m gonna need you to use your words,” he coos. That grabs your attention, dewy lashes flickering as you look at him with glossy eyes. The sound you offer in response is pitiful—something partway between a sob and a mewl. He prods your swollen, oversensitized clit, and you cry out. A tear slips down your cheek. He swipes it away.
You can’t handle much more. It’s pure static—electrical currents coursing through your veins. Synapses misfiring. Muscles spasming. He can tell that you’re toeing the line, treading closer and closer to complete a collapse.
“I dunno,” you babble, squirming away from the touch. “Too much, Jack—it’s too much…”
Poor thing. He relents, holding the power button until the vibrating stops. He chucks the toy halfway across the bed and crawls over you, lowering to plant a kiss to your temple. A large hand slides up your side. His thumb sweeps over your waist, graphing the stretch marks spiderwebbed over the skin there.
“It’s okay,” he says, sitting back so he can tug his shirt off. The mattress dips next to you as he lays down and drags you back into his arms. “S’okay. Did so good for me, didn’t you?”
You give a noncommittal hum as you nod, huddling close until your cheek is squished against his chest. Your fingertips trace lazy patterns over his bicep, charting constellations in the freckles there. There’s a set of them that look like a heart, or so you’ve told him in the past. You’d giggled when he had immediately knocked his chin to his shoulder to try and catch a glimpse of the pattern you claimed to see. He wasn’t so sure of it, even now, but you’ve always been so adamant about it. He smiles and places a kiss at your hairline and then another one, wrapping an arm over your shoulders and squeezing you tight.
Jack’s head tips and his eyes fall askance, drifting to the alarm clock on the nightstand. It’s an hour past your reservation. Shit. You feel him tense beneath you and your gaze trails after his. He looks back to you, managing a sheepish smile in reply to the pointed look you give him.
“I’ll make you something nice,” he says as you sit up. You’re straddling him now. His hands brace your hips as he leans up and kisses your tummy, daring to move lower. “And I’ll take you to that restaurant tomorrow.” He’s smart enough to add, but you still look a little disappointed.
“And the next day…?” He croaks.
You shake your head, laughing softly. His hands remain glued to your sides as you slide yourself lower and lower until he's groaning. You roll into him. He grabs handfuls of your ass, tugging you down.
You lean back onto your haunches so you can unbuckle his belt. Your fingers fumble with it for a few seconds before you finally begin to work him free. His cock stands rigid, weeping at the tip. He’s been waiting for this all day, since you’d sent him those pictures so many hours ago. Your hand wraps itself around his shaft, gliding up the curve of it and then falling back down.
“Thought you didn’t have anything left in you?” He asks, his voice pinched as you shift over him. His erection is frustratingly hard and still trapped behind his zipper.
“Well, I figured I owe you one…” you murmur. You’ve taken insatiable to a whole other level, and he's not entirely sure what he ever did to deserve you. Jack certainly won't take you for granted though.
Jack heaves a shaky breath, his body shuddering after being starved of relief for hours on end. It had been suffocating, but your tender touch is already breathing life back into him. Your thumb slips over the slit at his tip, smearing a droplet of precome. His eyes clench shut. The line of his shoulders goes taut, brows pinch, and jaw clenches. Your gaze trails his form, taking him in. The wide breadth of him. The way his arms flex as he holds onto you, prominent veins running up the lengths of them.
He’s about to come right then and there, having barely just gotten started. Heat creeps up his neck, tinting his cheeks the moment he admits such a thing to himself.
“Fuck,” he pants, blinking his eyes open. “Quit it—need to be inside you.”
Suddenly, he’s hauling you forward until you’re positioned over him. Steadily, you begin to lower yourself onto his cock, exhaling when he bottoms out. He moans below you, throwing his head back as you rock down onto him. His hips begin to meet yours halfway, taking on a matching rhythm.
Slithering his hands around to your back, he unclasps your bra. The straps slip from your shoulders. He's instantly mesmerized by the way your tits bounce as you move up and down on his cock. His hands come up to fondle them. They fit perfectly in his palms. He kneads them gently.
Before long he is on the verge again. The plush walls of your cunt are wrapped so snugly around him, clenching and fluttering, sucking him in and pushing him out. You fall forward until your lips clash against his. He is holding you, hands roaming all over as if trying to scoop up as much of you as possible and bring you closer—meld you into him. You give another couple languid rolls. Stars split in the darkness behind his eyelids when they fall shut. He moans into your mouth and you swallow the sound. He hones in on your hips again, grabbing them up and pulling them down, stilling their movement so he can pour into you.
The kiss breaks off and you slump over him. He rubs your back as his cock softens, still buried inside you while simultaneously feeling himself leak out of you.
“Just so you know,” his voice is a whisper in your ear, “if you ever send me pictures at work again I’ll make sure we spend another evening beating your record.”
You shuffle above him, and for a while it’s the only indication you heard him.
“That’s a really unorthodox way of asking me for more pictures, Jack.”
“You're nothing but trouble.”
“And you love it.”
A beat of silence. You can hear the smile in his voice when he next speaks.
and when samira complains about robby to jack and jack goes to robby saying “why the hell did your best resident just tell me she doesn’t think she belongs here?” because he knows it was probably robby who made her think that way. like what.
and another thing… i think it’s hilarious how abbot very obviously supports and respects and even encourages the women in the ER and was married and is a widower and robby has had failed relationship after relationship after situationship and had a woman literally terminate her pregnancy because of him and like none of this has caused robby to have any self reflection abt how his ego controls every interaction he has with the women that are supposed to look to him for anything
