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all that was good and fair

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“You must stop touching me,” Caitriona says under her breath. Her hands, ivory cream and fine-boned, lay on her lap, pale against the dark fabric of her dress.

Beneath them, the engine of the limo rumbles smoothly, San Diego passing by them in the summer dusk. The driver put up the partition on Cait’s request at the beginning of the trip; traffic has made it a slower drive than earlier in the day. The others have retreated back to the hotel in their own cars. The question-and-answer session is over and the premiere is done, and they’ve got eight hours of peace before it’s more press and junkets and photo shoots –

And Sam can’t stop looking at her hands.

He loves her hands.

Grinning slightly, he leans in just the slightest, their thighs brushing. The neckline on her dress is unbearably high; he wants to put his mouth on the smooth skin of her collarbones, the cool shadowed valley between her breasts.

“You’re the one who slipped your hand up my kilt in front of a theatre full of fans,” he murmurs, letting his voice roughen up.

Pink color touches the delicate arch of her cheek. Cait slants him a glance. Her dark hair is pulled back slickly, and she looks so delightfully prim and proper that he wants to fuck her right there in the backseat of the limo. He’s wanted to do it all day, wanted to make her all flushed and mussed before they faced the hoard of fans and reporters. Having the premiere at Comic-Con – something he hadn’t ever experienced before, and Jesus Christ, it’s a fucking trip – has made it difficult to get her alone.

It’s why he can’t stop touching her.

“Just giving the people what they want,” she says, her mouth drawing up into a small, sly smile.

Sam keeps her gaze as he drops his hand between them, creeping over her knee. She’s not wearing tights, and her skin is cool under his rough hands. His palm curves to the jut of her bone under skin, the fabric of her dress against his wrist.

“Besides,” she says, her breath catching just slightly as his fingers slip under the hem of her dress, “you’re the one who keeps wearing the bloody kilts.”

He loves it when she swears. In Scotland, on their few days off from shooting, they’ll all go down to the pub in the local village, fairly incognito – though he isn’t certain how long that will last, given the explosion of publicity, fucking Comic-Con – and Cait will match them ale for ale, whiskey for whiskey. She likes to drink her whiskey slow, and he likes to watch her, watch her eyes go heavy-lidded, her mouth loosen and the Irish slick over her voice, sweet and charming. They match each other well, he thinks, rubbing light circles over her thigh.

God, he fucking loves her legs.

“Sam – “

“We’ve got time,” he says. He wants to touch her. It’s been too long without her – staying in separate rooms, hounded by press that never knew they existed six months ago. The photo shoots are the only excuse they have to put their hands on each other and they go for it. That fashion shoot just days past, with her in that short gold and cream mini dress and her arms draped around his neck - jesus -

“We really don’t,” she murmurs, but her thighs spread and god above, she’s going to let him touch her.

“It’ll put you in a good mood,” he says, leaning into kiss her ivory throat. This fucking neckline, like a prison –

“You’re certainly sure of yourself,” she says with a breathy laugh. Her skin is warm under his hands. She leans into him, lifting her leg to hook her knee over his. She leans fully back against the car seat and looks at him with a slow smile. Her hands slide away from her lap.

He wants her to touch him.

“I think I know what you like,” he says, voice dropping. He can hear the words out of his throat roughen, rumbling out of his throat. His lips trail over her jaw and throat, his chin brushing against the top of her neckline. He palms her thigh, hitching it closer over his knee.

Her hand rises to his chest, slipping under the open panels of his suit jacket to rest against his crisp white shirt, right over his heart. “You do,” she murmurs, her other hand sliding up to cup his jaw. “And you need a shave.”

He leans his forehead against hers as he runs his hand up her inner thigh, palming her damp sex. A low breath escapes her lips as he grins. “You’re wet.”

“You’re wearing a fucking kilt. You know what that does to me,” she retorts, her voice thickening.

He watches her face as he rubs his heel against her, her hips rocking in time, searching for friction. The city lights and the dimness of the car play shadows across her face, the smooth line of her brow, the flush on her cheeks. When she thrusts her hand into his hair and pulls, a hard demand he knows well, he leans in and kisses her right on the mouth, his tongue playing against hers.

“Sam – “ she breathes, and he’s so hard under his kilt, he thinks his dick is going to fall off. “Sam, my lipstick – “

He rears his head back, breathing harshly against her cheek. The taste and smell of her is intoxicating. “Cait, Jesus – “

“Oh, don’t you fucking stop now,” she mutters, dragging him back for a long, drugging kiss, her fingers tangled in his hair.

A laugh builds in his throat. He sinks into her mouth and pushes aside her panties to touch slick flesh, to find her clit and press his thumb there. He teases her as they round a corner, her skirt pushed up to her mid-thigh and her skin flushed. He swallows her moans as he slides two fingers inside of her, thrusting them as he circles her clit. She stretches back against the seat, her spine arching like an archer’s bow, a gasp ripping from her throat. Everything about her is delicate and beautiful; but when she wants to be, she is a firestarter.

He bites at her jaw and thrusts a third finger inside of her, and she’s so fucking wet – she comes with a shudder and a moan, rocking her hips against his hand. He coaxes the shudders from her slick flesh, kissing along the line of her throat as she breathes shakily, in and out. Her fingers press and tug at his scalp.

He remembers the first time he made her come, months ago in his trailer in the middle of the Highlands. It was freezing as hell, a night shoot, and they shared a small sip of whiskey, just to warm up. He smiled at her, at a sly joke of hers – and she kissed him then, across the narrow width of his trailer floor.

That was the beginning. He never wants it to end.

“Sam,” she whispers, her voice light and trembling.

The limo slows. He glances out the shadowed windows, watching as the hotel comes into view.

Sam looks back at her, sprawled and still utterly proper in her high-necked dress, her lipstick mussed, but every hair still in place. She smiles languidly, sighing as his hand slides over her thigh from her sex, damp and sticky with her.

“You’re coming to my room,” she whispers, her eyes bright as the skies over the Highlands, even in the dim light.

“Aye,” he says, the brogue harsh in the quiet air.

She smiles, laughing just a little. Her laughter is like soft bells. It shoots straight to his straining dick.

“They’re going to wonder how the wedding episode is so real, you know,” she says as she shifts away from him, straightening her dress and pulling out her compact to fix her lipstick.

The limo stops in front of their hotel. The press hover, but it isn’t as bad as earlier. Sam thinks about cows, sheep, the Loch Ness Monster – wills his dick to settle. Thank fucking god the kilt is loose.

“I don’t think they will, actually,” he says with a smirk.

“You’re awful,” she says. There is only a flush to the tops of her cheeks to make him think anything untoward just occurred.

He just smirks, which sets her into laughter once more. The limo glides to an easy stop. Just six floors until home.


Sam gives Cait ten minutes after they part in the lobby before he tracks her to her room.

She gives him less than thirty seconds inside before she has him pressed against the door.

“You left the kilt on,” she says, pleased.

He swallows hard, looking at her in the soft yellow lamplight. Her suite stretches out before them, a queen bed draped in blue bedding, the filmy cream curtains drawn. He wants to lay her out and put his mouth to her, to all the skin that is as fine as silk, to the soft wet flesh between her thighs, her pert breasts.

“You said you liked it.”

“I do,” she says, her hands on his shoulders. She presses him back against the door, a wicked smile curving her mouth.

Sam blinks, glancing her over. She’s changed out of her premiere dress, into a pale blue shift of a dress. Her feet are bare against the plush carpet. Her collarbones are exposed with the scoop neck of her dress, her hair loose and damp over her shoulders.

“You changed,” he says.

She leans in and bites at his jaw, her hands pushing at the suit jacket. “I did.”

His hands come up to her shoulders, skimming the line of her back. He can feel the rise of her spine under the soft blue fabric of her dress. “You’re beautiful,” he says, the words ripped from his throat.

Cait looks up at him with a sly grin, her hands falling to the folds of his kilt. “Smooth talker. I thought that was just for the press.”

“I have my moments,” he murmurs, his fingers curling around the long damp strands of her hair.

Grinning, she sinks to her knees in front of him. He’s immediately at half-mast; her hands push at the folds of his kilt, her mouth sliding over his thigh. Her fingers curl around the base of his dick and stroke lightly as she licks at his inner thigh.

“Cait - fuck - “ he groans, his fingers tightening in her hair. His hips rise off of the door as she breathes hotly over his erection, lost in a tangle of damp hair and the thick folds of his kilt.

When she takes him into her mouth, all pale delicate skin and a soft wicked mouth, her eyes bright as jewels, he sinks back against the door. This – this he dreams about, her mouth on him, his mouth on her – he wants to hold her there forever, and he wants to kiss her until he can’t breathe, and he wants to eat her out until she screams. These are the moments when he understands Jamie Fraser best, understands the madness that grips him over a woman. Caitriona is not Claire, but she is just as addicting and transfixing.

Sam shuts his eyes and moans her name, the sound guttural and hard. His thighs are trembling, his fingers pushing against her scalp. She licks at the tip of his dick, her fingers stroking at the base, teasing him until he’s all but limp against the door, his hips thrusting helplessly into her grip and her hot mouth. She sucks lightly and curls her fingers hard at the bottom of his dick, licking the underside of his dick, and he can’t help it – he comes, as he’s wanted to do since she slid her hand up his thigh on stage hours ago. He slumps against the door and pants heavily, his eyelids heavy and sinking over his gaze. His hands tremble as he strokes through her curls.

Cait rests her cheek against his thigh, laughing softly. Her face is masked by his kilt.

“This is absurd,” she murmurs, amusement coloring her tone.

“I know,” he says, still breathless.

She kisses his thigh, rubbing her cheek against the rough hair there, before she slips away, rising to her feet. He watches her as she rubs a hand over her mouth, delight heavy in her gaze. She looks absolutely debauched, like some of those high-fashion photos he found of her once he knew they would be acting together. He was fascinated by her then – it hasn’t faded away.

“Tired you out, Scot?” she teases.

“Not on your life,” he says, his still-trembling hands moving to the buttons of his shirt. His suit jacket drops to the floor, his shirt follows, and he toes off his shoes as she sways towards him. Her slim hands go to the belt of his kilt, but he stops her, grabbing them and bringing them to his mouth.

“Cait,” he murmurs, kissing each fingertip. She flushes under the attention but keeps his gaze. She’s a hardy, brave woman; she ran around the Scottish forests in the dark for hours and days at a time. She is fiercer than she seems.

Still, gentleness isn’t always gauche.

He backs her up to the bed, lays her out on her back. She looks up at him with a smile, bright and wide. When she looks at him, she always looks as if she could be laughing; he likes that she finds that much joy with him. In the soft lamp light, he peels her dress away and swallows hard. She is utterly naked for him, her stomach concave with every breath, the dark curls between her thighs glistening.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. The word is drawn out, the brogue heavy.

“Sam, come here,” she says softly, her eyes bright as oceans.

He kneels at the edge of the bed instead, cups her thighs. She laughs as he pulls her close to the edge of the bed, her thighs splayed. There is only pink and white flesh before him, and dark curls. Her fingers trail over the nape of his neck, through the curls of his hair against his overwarm skin, and she blows out a slow breath.

He glances up at her, meeting her heavy gaze, as her puts his lips to her inner thigh, tracing the same paths as his fingers had just an hour before. He tastes her skin, fresh from the shower; he noses at the curls between her thighs and spreads her wide. Her spine arches, her fingers twisting in his hair.

“It’s a good thing we didn’t do this before the premiere,” he murmurs, breathing hotly against her slick flesh.

She moans softly, tugging at his scalp. “Why’s that?”

“We wouldn’t have left the bloody room,” he says with a low laugh.

As she smiles, he puts his mouth to her wet sex, eating at her slow and easy. He licks at her, nosing at her clit, listening to the sounds and hitches of her breath. She tightens her grip on his hair and pulls him in closer, groaning his name. Her hips rock against his mouth and he moans against her flesh, edging her higher and higher. She gets slicker with every lick and press of his tongue, her thighs trembling under his hands. The taste of her is slightly salty-sweet on his tongue and he searches it out, one hand moving from her thigh to join his mouth. He thrusts two fingers into her as he mouths at her clit, and she shakes under him, her gasps filling his ears. When she comes, she all but shouts his name, curling up into him.

It’s a beautiful sound.

She wraps her arms around his shoulders and pulls him over her, tugging at his kilt. He kisses her breasts, tongues her nipples until she shudders and curls her thighs over his hips. They are skin to skin as he’s wanted all day – for weeks, really – and he kisses her mouth as she wraps her long limbs around him, the broad expanse of his back. Her legs go on for miles, rubbing against his, all smooth and sleek.

“God, Cait,” he whispers.

“You think highly of me, don’t you?” she teases in a low voice, her eyes bright.

He takes her hands in his and stretches her arms over their heads, pressing them back into the mattress. Stretched out over her, he leans in and kisses her, soft and slow.

“Fucking right I do,” he murmurs, watching her face.

Her smile could light up the city. He keeps the memory of it, for lonely nights ahead.


Later, Cait orders room service and they sit around eating French fries and chocolate cake in the hotel bathrobes. He throws fries at her and she laughs, and they talk shit about the inane questions some reporters always ask, and marvel at the amount of people there for the premiere.

It won’t be like this forever, Sam knows. But he has her now, and she has him. He feels like he’s at the top of the rollercoaster ride, waiting to descend.

It’s enough.