Chapter 1: Snapshots
Wrapping my arms tighter around my waist and gripping the sides of my gray button down coat, I grit my teeth and sprint inside from the car park. The wind cuts across my cheeks like a knife, while my mountain of hair whirls around like a cyclone on the top of my head. Will need a mirror STAT.
The massive holiday tree shines brightly in the center of The Royal Infirmary lobby as I circle through the revolving doors. A pianist sits to the right, turning out Christmas carols for visitors and patients. Strings of white lights cascade down from the high ceiling and I pause for a moment to appreciate the sight before me. It is truly beautiful this time of year. And makes the start of a grueling shift somewhat more pleasant.
Well, that and someone else.
My cheeks warm at the thought of him, my pulse pounding double-time in my chest. I tug my bottom lip between my teeth on my way up in the lift; a failure at concealing my impatience at the prospect of actually seeing him. A grin stretching my lips as I bite down even harder.
I know he’s on tonight.
This high I’ve been riding all week makes me feel giddy and flushed and excited and stupid and new.
It all feels new.
And I love it.
We may or may not be taking a slight detour and getting off on the wrong floor. Because reasons.
If I played my cards right, Dr. Fraser should be arriving any moment. The man was always on time, if not early.
Look natural, Beauchamp.
After spending several moments engrossed in a faux text conversation, while peering occasionally towards the crosswalk leading up the lifts, I wait.
My gut sinks in disappointment. Maybe he isn’t coming. Maybe he switched shifts for a family thing or he’s lying in bed with man flu or…
We’d texted throughout the week, flirty and casual. Nothing too serious. Our first “official” date wasn’t even until this weekend; unless you count making out in the middle of the night in an empty physician’s lounge as a date.
I cursed my thoughts for going down that route. Now I just desperately wanted to kiss him again.
At ten past the hour, it was obvious I would not be seeing him tonight.
“Going down.” Ignoring the creepy automated woman’s voice as the lift descended back down three floors, I pouted to myself.
My less than cheery mood, rendering me oblivious to anyone else around me as I stepped through the open doors, then resulted in a head-on collision into the rock solid back of a man in my path.
A six-foot-four ginger, to be exact.
“Oh! I’m so sorry, I—“
He whirled around, “Sorry! I wasna paying…attention.”
I swear we were locked in some sort of cheesy movie moment; everything around us evaporated into a fuzzy blur as we stood there staring at each other. It might have been ten seconds or ten minutes, I had no idea.
Jamie reached for me, but stopped himself, recoiling his hand down to his side; still unsure of where we stood as far as public displays of affection went.
It was the first time we’d seen each other in person since that night.
The way he was looking at me. Blue eyes crinkling at the edges, soft mouth curved upward at one side in a half-grin that made my knees go wobbly.
When he ran those long fingers through his hair, that was enough to do me in. Yes, please. Please what? I didn’t know, but yes, please.
Jamie Fraser was not a stranger to me, but this? Whatever this was between us, this thing that had simmered unknowingly beneath the surface, now released and bubbling over, hot and molten. And much too fast to even try to contain it now.
“Hey. I was hoping I’d see you,” I said, smiling warmly at him. “What are you doing down here?”
“Oh, I uh, well I was looking for ye,” he admitted, chuckling nervously; the tips of his ears painted pink as he grimaced. Caught red handed.
He’d been waiting for me all this time. Looking for me. Just as I’d been looking for him.
A couple of infatuated idiots is what we were.
“Come here,” I said, reaching for his hand, his warm fingers sliding between mine instantaneously.
Pulling him into a closet space in a somewhat deserted hallway, I stood on my toes and wrapped my arms around his waist. He didn’t miss a beat, sliding his own hands up my arms, his thumbs rubbing circles on the caps of my shoulders just under the sleeve of my scrub top. I shivered at the sensation of his skin on mine in hidden places and found myself wanting his hands to wander elsewhere. Everywhere.
“It’s my turn to ask if I can kiss you,” I whispered. “It’s all I’ve wanted for days.”
“Thank Christ,” he murmured, cupping my cheeks, his lips only a hair’s breadth away.
But he didn’t make any move to close the distance.
Pulling away just enough to read his face, my brow furrowed slightly in confusion.
“Well, go on then,” he says, answering the unspoken question in my eyes. “Ye wanted to kiss me. Now’s your chance, beautiful woman.” His tone has lowered a notch and holy hell.
There’s that grin again.
You could bottle that combination up and sell it. Absolutely lethal.
“Kiss me, mo chridhe.” He nudged my nose and I laughed, finally finally brushing my lips over his; his minty exhale filling my mouth as I traced my tongue over his bottom lip. The throaty moan that escaped me then was absolutely involuntary as his tongue slid against mine.
Oh, this was good. And much too easy.
And abso-fucking-lutely worth the wait.
Here’s a little Monday treat for you! 🫐🥞
Again, there is no beta. That’s sort of the point with these little ficlets. Just writing, without too much thought to technicalities.
Apologies for falling behind on answering your lovely comments. I appreciate each and every one so very much. As always, thanks for reading! ❤️
“She did not!”
“Aye, she did! Marched right up to him, grabbed his face, kissed him, and announced they’d be gettin’ married. Ian wasna included in the decision.”
I snort-laughed at Jamie’s account of his sister Jenny and brother-in-law’s “engagement”.
We were on my couch after dinner that evening—well, dinner consisting of take-away. I did prefer not to poison him before we even made it to one month together. A bottle and two glasses of wine sat in various states of consumption on the small table in front of us.
Collapsing back into the plush cushions and onto Jamie’s shoulder, my tongue felt loose, my limbs slackened. My head swam in that perfectly light headed, glowy state; the weight of Jamie’s arm around my back delightfully heavy.
He was always warm. And he smelled good. I shifted my weight a bit and buried my nose in the crease of his armpit. I was buzzing—from the wine or just Jamie, I didn’t know. He jumped and let out a high pitched yelp when I burrowed into the nook I currently occupied.
“That tickles,” he scolded, laughing while simultaneously grabbing hold of my waist and tugging me forward until a knee half straddled him. Sliding over until my leggings settled atop his jeans, his large hands spanned the expanse of the backs of my thighs, fingers barely brushing the curve of my arse and I—
Said leggings suddenly felt non-existent as I tightened my legs around him, ever so slightly rocking my hips forward and down; his hands digging into my generous thighs in response.
“Claire...” his chuckle turned gasp when I did it again, his own hips bucking up to join my efforts, “what are ye...”
Lowering my mouth to his ear and tracing his helix with my lips, I whispered, “Stay”.
His hand cupped the back of my head, gripping a fistful of my curls. I kissed the space beneath his ear, near his neck.
“Are ye sure?” he asked, the vibration of his voice against my lips.
All movement ceased as I pulled back to look Jamie in the eyes, desperately attempting to convey how seriously I wanted him to stay with me. No, it wasn’t the wine talking; his presence my only inebriation.
Giving him an affirmative nod, my eyes boring into his, he mirrored me; nodding his own head in agreement.
I want you, too.
As much as I enjoyed a post sex lie-in, listening to Jamie’s deep breathing on the pillow next to me, I found myself in possession of a delicious ache between my legs, needing attention from the man responsible for it. Draping myself over Jamie’s back, my bare breasts between his shoulder blades, I reached forward and brushed the curtain of curls that had fallen over his eyes in sleep. His lips curved upward into a smile and I thought I might die right there. Posing as a contortionist, I leaned down and met his smile with my own; smooching him awake until our teeth clanked, muffled laughter between us.
“Sassenach, morning breath,” he slurred, covering his mouth with the palm of his hand, “ye are a brave woman. Lemme brush first.”
With gentle pressure he signaled for me to move off him and rolled over, stretching his arms above his head. The sheet sliding off his torso, his naked body on display for my eyes. I ogled his arse as he padded over to the en suite bathroom. Jesus H. He was gorgeous; just as I knew he would be underneath his scrubs for years.
Following a zig-zag crack in the ceiling that ran down a corner onto the wall, I found myself strangely missing him. Good lord, Beauchamp. Don’t be ridiculous.
He had left the door partially open in invitation.
What the hell.
As I peeked through the bathroom door, his eyes turned to me and crinkled, pausing in mid brush. Standing beside him, I gingerly reached for my own toothbrush and felt his hand whisper across my back only for a moment as he resumed his morning routine.
And there we stood. Minty fresh. Gleaming teeth. Stark naked in my bathroom, grinning at each other in the mirror.
Grabbing my plush, white robe that lay across the rack on the wall, he wrapped it around my shoulders and nudged my knees as I hoisted myself up into the counter.
Rubbing circles around my left knee cap, his breath hitched and stopped, and repeated; on the verge of a question that stuck somewhere in the back of his throat.
“Out with it,” I demanded gently.
Exhaling from the depths of his belly, his eyes shifting anywhere but on me, he inquired in a tone I had never previously heard from him, timid and unsure. “How…how was it?”
This ridiculous, endearing, literal Adonis of a man.
He actually worried I wasn’t satisfied.
“Jamie. Look at me.”
I cupped his face and devoured his mouth, sucking and pulling on his lips so that he nearly struggled to keep up.
Unfortunately the need for oxygen is a thing and he began to pull away, humming against my mouth and letting go of my swollen bottom lip with a plop.
It had been my intention to steal his breath, but somewhere during the kiss our dynamic had shifted and I was left panting and wanting; my insides coiled so tightly, begging to be unwound. And only by him.
“Do you understand?” I breathed.
Jamie had this megawatt smile that, when genuinely happy, lit up his entire face. It was one of the first things that attracted me to him. And did it ever blind me now.
My robe had disappeared from my shoulders by this point and I shivered as my body temperature climbed back down from it’s previous heights. Goosebumps formed down my arms and across my chest. Of course he noticed and wrapped his arms around me, spanning the circumference of my body.
“Warm me up?” I murmured into his chest.
“Aye. Aye, I’ve got you.”
I went to work on Monday with stubble burn on the inside of my thighs, the scent of him in my bed, and no regrets.
Hello, lovelies! I definitely didn’t intend for there to be such a long wait between updates. Between work (in healthcare, it gets exhausting at times) and brain mush (aka pandemic brain) two months have flown by. My apologies! I hope you’ll enjoy this little piece. We’re time jumping a bit.
You’ll notice a few lines from the series thrown in. ❤️
Tiny humans. Mine and Jamie’s hypothetical tiny humans. They’d come up in conversation every now and then, as they do in any “getting to know you” phase of a new relationship. Yay or nay? Do you picture a future with a miniature version of yourself in tow? And as said relationship progresses into something deeper, the idea becomes a tangible thing. A miniature version of yourself…with me?
I’d never given the idea of becoming a mother more than a handful of fleeting thoughts over the years. Most often after clicking the obligatory love button on a friend I’d not seen since medical school’s Facebook pregnancy announcement (heavily filtered photo of a firstborn child donning a “I’m being promoted to big brother/sister” t-shirt) or lying in bed after possibly one too many glasses of wine; contemplating all the societal milestones I’d yet to accomplish before thirty, the evening’s mascara smudging into my under eye creases raccoon style.
Memories of my own mother were cloudy snapshots. The gentle whisper of her hands as she attempted to tame my unruly hair into a French braid. The click-clack of her shiny, patent leather high heels I found so glamorous. The scent of lavender that clung to her coat as I pressed my little face into her collar when she hugged me. Eskimo kisses on the first day of big kid school.
Flashes that gradually grew dimmer over time. I was only five when they were taken from me.
Now, as I reach for the stick sitting in a pee cup (first thing in the morning, they say) on the bathroom counter, my hand is shaking so fucking hard the cup nearly topples over.
Double pink lines.
Claire soon-to-be-Fraser—pregnant. And like a rapid succession of dominoes, it all falls into place.
The last couple of weeks had been a cycle of hot flashes, insatiable hunger (for food…and my fiancé), fatigue so hardcore I’d struggle to make the trek back to my office after a case before collapsing on the couch, and breasts so sore my usual sleeping position of lying on my belly, leg slung over Jamie’s, now terribly uncomfortable.
I chuckled despite my current meltdown. After practically attacking Jamie approximately two point five seconds post darkening the door most nights, I’d shrink away and hiss at the first touch of his hands on my breasts, confused eyes meeting mine.
This wasn’t supposed to happen yet. Our wedding was only a month away; exactly four weeks tomorrow, in fact. My fitted dress on a fancy hanger in Gillian’s spare bedroom closet.
Jesus H. How quickly would I start to show? I must be at least eight weeks by now. I’d attributed the lack of my period to high stress workflow, wedding prep, and the fact that my cycles had been irregular since I was a teen.
Stop it. Get a grip.
Stumbling over to the tub and crouching down to sit on the edge, the tremors slowly began to subside. The hem of my pajama top slightly bunched up over my shorts and I gently poked the bit of exposed skin. “Yes, hello you. Thought you were clever crashing the party.” The corner of my mouth curved upwards as my palm flattened, fingers involuntarily spreading across my abdomen in a protective cradle.
This body that had sustained me and housed my own organs for thirty-two years, had accepted its new challenge; every cell existing for him or her. It was a transition that stunned me by its intensity. Sudden, yet simple. Of course. It’s you.
I’d been waiting for you. My heart had known you’d come, long before my brain could catch up.
It wasn’t that I opposed the idea of being a mother, not at all, I just didn’t know how. But Jamie, Jamie was born to be a father. A natural. Watching him expertly swaddle his newborn niece into a perfect baby burrito, her pink cheek squished against his chest, his large hand patting her little bum; it was a lot. A sight that made me want to drag him upstairs and demand he put a baby in me ASAP.
I knew he wanted his own. It was never a question for him. But I knew, I knew he’d wait until I was ready. We’d agreed on Fraser-Beauchamp babies, when the time was right.
For hours I obsessed over how to tell him, my phone’s search bar and history displaying cutesy YouTube videos and articles on how to break the news to a significant other. It all felt so over the top. How does one even pull off such a production? Yikes.
No. Just lay it on the table. No gimmicks or tricks, no scavenger hunt for clues, just honesty. My eyes began to sting and my heart suddenly felt much too large for its thoracic cage. He would be thrilled.
“Claire? Ye in there?”
My hands froze mid-sauté (an attempt at dinner was being made here) and my gut catapulted itself into my throat.
Here we go.
The elephant in the room—a small, nondescript gift box, that may as well have been a neon sign, sat to the right of me; its presence an almost palpable, pulsing thing.
Jamie, oblivious to it all, sauntered over to slide his arms around my waist, inhaling whiffs of garlic and onion; the beginnings of spaghetti sauce. “Smells good,” he murmured into my cheek, “but what made you decide to—“
“Shut up,” I laughed, pinching his arm. We both knew who managed the culinary department in our relationship.
Jamie’s deep laughter warmed me to my core as his arms and his scent enveloped me completely. His teeth grazed my neck, sucking the delicate surface of my skin before soothing it with a kiss.
“I missed you,” I said, as my body exhaled from head to toe in response to his presence. I’d spent the remainder of the afternoon on pins and needles, anxious and impatient. Turning to catch his already waiting mouth, I hummed against his lips.
“Hey,” I whispered, “I have something for you.”
Vibrating as I extricated myself from his hold and walked towards the island — one, two, three steps— in the center of the kitchen — and three steps back— I handed him the box.
He eyed me with suspicion and affection, the crinkles near the corner of his eyes tightening, as he accepted my offering, a crooked smile playing off the edges of his mouth.
Circling him, I buried my face in between his shoulders and hooked my thumbs underneath the waistband of his pants, stroking the crests of his pelvic bone.
Here, in our kitchen, at six o’nine p.m. on a Tuesday night, a fissure would be formed in the story of our lives; a division of the before and after .
His breath hitched and he chuckled awkwardly, until he didn’t.
His hand gripped mine and I gave it a squeeze back.
I heard him swallow audibly.
“Claire. Is this…are you…”
His voice is scratchy with poorly contained hope.
I nodded against his back.
Whirling around to face me and cupping my face in his hands, he searched my eyes, “Ye are? Really?”
“We are?” The pitch of his voice grew higher, his beautiful face joyfully flabbergasted. God, I loved him.
“Yes,” I laughed, covering his hands with my own. He kissed me with a gusto I’d never seen in him, lifting me into a hard embrace, my toes nearly hovering above the hardwood floor.
“Christ,” he breathed, setting me back on two feet. Pausing to swipe a hand across his wet cheek, he engaged in a thorough head to toe examination of me, his hands spanning the circumference of my waist. “I thought …but nah, I told myself it wasna that. No’ yet.”
He shook his head to clear the foggy state we were suspended in and smiled at me like a man who just had the entire world handed to him. “You’ve been a wee grump all week,” he said, his hand reaching up to gently tug on a stray curl, “now I know why.”
Snort-laughing and swatting his arse as he pulled me into a softer embrace, the tears that burned beneath my eyelids spilled hot, seeping through his shirt.
“Mo chridhe,” he murmured into my hair, “you’re okay? How are ye feeling?”
Lifting me as if I weighed nothing, I sat perched on the edge of the marble countertop. “You won’t be able to do that much longer. Soon I’ll be too heavy,” I half-jokingly lamented as I wrapped my legs around his waist.
Brushing my hair behind my ears, his thumbs stroked my cheeks. “Never,” he kissed me once more, “but I know my girl. What’s bothering ye?”
Sighing, I grabbed his hand, fidgeting with his fingers. “Jamie, it’s just the timing. The wedding, it’s only a month away and, and…we... ” My sentence faded as I glanced back up at him. His face was smooth, unperturbed.
“Claire,” he grasped my chin in his thumb and pointer finger, “Doesna matter. I’ll marry ye in a garbage bag for all I care. Show up in your birthday suit, if ye wanna.”
“How thrilling for our guests.”
“Oh, aye. Especially Rupert and Angus.” His tone was dead serious and we both burst into laughter.
Rolling my eyes, I laid my head against his shoulder, burrowing my face into the crook of his neck. He rubbed my back gently, inevitably reading my thoughts in the process.
Not one for subtlety, Jamie Fraser.
“What if I’m terrible at it?” My voice cracked, watery and warbled, and I suddenly felt small and vulnerable, tiny in the face of something so much larger than myself; so much larger than both of us.
“You will not be terrible.”
“How do you know?” I asked, pulling away from him and placing my palms on his wide chest, staring at the crooked pinky finger of my left hand. Uncle Lamb had accidentally slammed the car door on it the morning of my first day of school in his care, so nervous to get me there on time. We’d both cried in the car park. “We’ll figure this out together, kid,” he promised me as I hiccuped against his shoulder, missing my parents.
I wondered if he or she would have my hands.
“I’ve seen ye wi’ your niece and nephew—“
“Mine?” I cut him off.
“Yes, yours. They’ve always been yours. You’ve been a part of this family since ye first stepped through the door at Lallybroch, Claire. They love you. Ye think my sister trusts just anyone wi’ her children?” His brows raised in question, waiting for confirmation I couldn’t deny.
Only just the week before Jenny had called me in a panic and a flurry of background noise, asking if I’d mind taking Maggie to her doctor’s appointment. She’d forgotten about a parent-teacher conference at wee Jamie’s school that afternoon and had double booked appointments.
This calmed the churning waters in my gut slightly. I wanted to be excited. It was bubbling just beneath the surface of the thin film of maternal anxiety that had encased me for years. I wanted to bask in this incredible, life-altering news with the love of my life, the best partner one could possibly hope for in navigating the parenting thing.
“This is no but the beginning of an adventure for both of us, Claire. What ye don’t ken, you’ll learn.” He kissed my nose. “We’ll learn. Together.”
Unhooking my legs from his waist, so that he could crouch his six-foot-four frame to lock eyes with me, he whispered, “Aye?”
Resting my forehead against his, the comforting, ocean blue pools of his eyes flooding my vision, anchoring me, concealing the rest of the world.
You and me.
“Aye,” I nodded. My whispered promise echoing his.
Learning forward, he brushed his lips against my belly, his words muffled, but clear as day. “I cannot wait, Sorcha.”
Tugging him back up to meet me, I kissed him then, fiercely, fervently; the tips of my fingers making prints into his skin as I clung to his stubbled face, our teeth grinding and bumping into each other’s smiles. The best sort of kiss.
“We’ll figure this out together, kid.”
Happy Monday and Happy New Year, lovely readers! I hope you’re all well.
We’re taking it back to the early relationship days of our blueberry couple. 🫐❤️
The five a.m. deluge pounds relentlessly onto the Royal Infirmary grounds. By some miracle, Jamie and I are leaving an overnight shift…together, two hours early. An entire weekend off; no call to respond to (thank you, Gillian), nothing expected from either of us.
Despite being awake since four p.m. the previous day, I feel oddly buoyant and free clasping Jamie’s large hand with mine (I love how it completely encompasses my own). I can't wait to fall into bed with him in a post-breakfast coma. Sleep. Bliss. I’d grown used to the weight of my six-foot-four Scot curled around me and I’d tossed and turned this week without him, sleeping fitfully at best.
“Jesus,” he said as we surveyed the sheets of rain pelting sideways, violently, misting our faces from underneath the awning, “let’s wait a minute, a nighean. Left my feckin’ umbrella in the car.”
“That helps,” I deadpanned.
“Ok, ye wee sass!” He peeked into my work bag overflowing with everything but said object and raised his brows. “Where’s yours?”
Throwing his head back in laughter—delirious laughter, amusement heightened by lack of sleep, he wraps his arms around me, squeezing me around the middle and planting a loud, wet kiss on my neck.
It’s gross. I love it.
My own arms wind around his waist in squeezy reciprocation as I lift my chin and purse my lips at him, in both request and invitation. Hazelnut coffee creamer lingers on his breath when I suck his bottom lip between my own, pulling away as he leans into me. I reach up to slide his black-rimmed glasses back from their fallen spot to the bridge of his nose.
I love glasses now. I have a glasses fetish. Or maybe it’s just a Jamie Fraser fetish.
We linger a while on a stone bench, the clunky toe of my work clogs tapping against Jamie’s trainers, waiting for the showers to slack off, but it’s obvious they’ve set in for the morning.
“Should we just make a go for it?”
We run, shrieking through puddles and laughing like idiots, thoroughly drenched from head to toe.
“Oh, my god,” I wheezed, plopping down into the passenger seat, catching my breath, “I love you.” I lift the heavy, soaked mop of hair off my neck, water trickling off the hem of my scrub pants onto the floorboard.
I love you.
I did, for some time now, but I hadn’t meant to just blurt it out, in a fit of laughter, no less. But my impulsivity did nothing to lessen the sincerity of it. Why hide from him?
Because I knew if I said it once, I’d never stop.
“Yes,” I grabbed his hand, threading my fingers through his. “I love you, Jamie. I am so in love with you.”
My words don’t falter, my voice doesn’t shake. I love you. It’s raining. My name is Claire. It was simple.
“Good,” he grinned at me (the soft, lopsided half-grin that made my stomach flip), reaching for my hand and brushing his lips across my knuckles, his breath whispering against skin, “S’good. Because I love ye, too.”
The stupid console between us prevented a smooth transition into his lap, but we managed, and as I settled across his hips, I desperately wished to be naked, wrapped up in sheets with him. The sheets in his bed that smelled like him, like us, as I’d frequented them so often. But the ten minute trek to his flat was ten minutes more than I could stand.
He peeled away a strand of hair that stuck to my face and brushed it behind my ear with exquisite tenderness.
“The first time I saw you, Claire, I didna stand a chance, wanted ye right then,” he huffed and squeezed my waist, “What is it that makes every man ye meet want to take off his pants within five minutes of meetin’ ye?”
Snorting as I snaked a hand through his locks, now a rain darkened auburn, I kissed him lazily. His lips opened under mine, just grazing, not yet consuming; reigning himself in before the dam would break.
“Likewise,” I whispered, fingertips dipping into the nape of his neck. He hummed against my lips, mouth curving upwards.
He wasn’t finished. So I waited as he stroked the jutting edges where my clavicle met my sternal notch, back and forth, back and forth. Jamie, he took his time, a wordsmith with his feelings; a quality I envied about him. And they were always worth the wait.
“But I loved ye, that first night you stayed over wi’ nothing but your work clothes. Seeing you in my shirt, and my shorts swallowing ye,” his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed and furrowed his brows, lost in his thoughts, “you laughed, but I’d never seen anything more beautiful. It was right, Claire. I knew you belonged wi’ me.”
Fuck. I could no longer blame the rain for the moisture springing up beneath my lashes.
His fingers slid under the hem of my top, the fabric peeling from my skin and my head ducking ever so slightly as he pulled it up and over me. A fat raindrop rolled down the side of my neck and Jamie followed it with his mouth, lapping at my damp skin until he reached my nipple, taut and hard through the thin material encasing my breasts.
Freeing the clasp at my back and tossing my bra into the now empty seat next to us, I moaned unabashedly from the back of my throat at the sharp contrast of his warm touch on my chilled, now bare skin. I arched into him involuntarily, my skin itching for him everywhere.
I writhed, wanting him above me, free of his clothes, but tugging on his hair to gain his attention only spurred him on further. He loved this. One large hand palmed a breast, gentle kneading turning increasingly rough, the other under the attention of his eager mouth. No one would ever accuse Jamie Fraser of lacking an appreciation for female anatomy.
Or one female in particular.
“Jamie,” I breathed, my voice husky and low. He released my breast, the skin wet and glistening from his attention. He gazed up at me through hooded eyes, pupils blown, his breathing heavy. I thought I might die.
“I need you to make love to me.”
His eyes shifted to the backseat, brows raising in question at me over the logistics. How do you propose we get there?
The car park was fairly dark and empty, shift change wouldn’t be happening for at least another hour yet. Clutching my half-drying shirt to my chest, I leapt out of the car and drove into the backseat Mission Impossible style, Jamie left guffawing in the driver’s seat
His laughter died abruptly, sobering as we locked eyes in the rearview mirror. I wondered what sort of picture I made—hair curling madly as it began to dry, bare shoulders peeking over the scrub top I still clutched haphazardly over my chest.
The look he was giving me. Hung the moon seemed an appropriate description. And I didn’t have to guess.
“Scandalous, Dr. Beauchamp.” His tone was thick with poorly controlled want, a promise of what was to come, and the cardiac muscle in my chest pumped double-time.
“Get back here, Fraser.”
The door clicked and shut, leaving me in silence for a beat as he circled the car and climbed in next to me. Without a word, he grasped my cheeks with both hands and kissed me like a man starved. Suspended in a haze of lips and stroking tongues, the scent of Jamie’s skin, a musky duo of his cologne and the sweat from his pores, accentuated by the rain, assaulted my senses. I would never get enough of him. We kissed wildly, for what might have been minutes or hours, I couldn’t say; like we’d been apart for twenty years.
Cupping the back of my skull, his hungry mouth wandered, sucking on my chin and my neck; painting marks on his path, no doubt.
Once we’d divested each other of the remaining pieces of clothing, my back reclining against the seat, Jamie stroked down the inside of my thigh, brushing a finger through my folds as I simultaneously reached for him, palming him straining against my hand.
He pushed into me in a single thrust; the welcome intrusion forcing the breath from my lungs. I heard my name and a variation of Gaelic endearments (my love, my heart, my darling, perfect) in shaky syllables muttered in my ear as he adjusted his angle and slid deeper inside me, burying his face in my neck. Obsessively wrapping myself around him, craving him as closely as possibly, but unable to ignore the pressing need to move, I arched my hips up, purposely clenching myself around his cock.
“God, Claire,” he grunted through his teeth, gripping my hip, “Do that again and this wilna last long.”
And it didn’t. Both of us were so heavily drunk on each, bodies already wound so tightly, it didn’t take long to snap. My legs shook around his hips and I came hard, shoving his hand away from the apex where he disappeared into me.
It was so much.
My high pitched gasp trailed into whimpers as the aftershocks of my orgasm seemed to go on forever.
The soft slap of skin meeting skin slowed as Jamie's warbled cry of my name echoed so loudly, for a moment my rational mind hoped no one was close by, envisioning a call from hospital administration after that complaint.
Deflated and collapsed against me, his face resting against my chest, the pads of my fingers caressing his skull, I wondered if it were possible to quite literally drown in affection for another human being.
Jamie began to shift, one knee on the floor, the other near my hip, and it only then dawned on me what a bizarre, contorted position we were lying in. How had we managed to be successful at any of this? I giggled, applying gentle pressure to his shoulder. The smile he unleashed across his flushed face as he hovered still above me—
So much love.
“That oversized mug ye like is in the dishwasher,” he called out from the bedroom, “will ye make me a cup, too?”
“‘Course,” I answered, puttering around on sock covered toes in his kitchen. As I flipped the switch on his Keurig, a black and white strip of photos on the fridge caught my eye. We’d attended a co-worker’s wedding the weekend before and had taken a string of cheesy photos in a rented photo booth. The first shot was truly candid as there was no countdown or warning proceeding the initial click and flash.
Jamie stared blankly ahead, waiting for instructions, but me? I was looking at him.
I knew I loved him, but to be able to observe it etched so blatantly across my face, with my own eyes, was almost startling; a rare gift that had been handed to me.
Jamie shuffled into the kitchen, running a hand through his towel dried hair, hoodie in the opposite hand. Sliding up behind me, his slipped the hoodie over my head, helping me pull my arms through the long sleeves that covered my hands.
“Figured ye’d be asking for it anyway.”
A smile dimpled my chin, because he was right. Every time I stayed over, I’d claim his old Paris university hoodie. It was worn and lived in, washed to perfect softness. The best kind.
I pushed one of the two steaming cups towards him. “Here. It’s decaf.”
“Thank ye, mo ghraidh.” He smiled at me, rubbing his eyes like a child, and rested his head on my shoulder, leaning heavily on me. “I’d make you breakfast, but I dinna think I can stand much longer.”
Slipping my hands underneath his shirt, I rubbed his back, tracing the ridges and valleys over the map of scars on his skin. “It’s all right, let’s just order.”
We were asleep before we could even decide; delivery app still open, my phone sliding out of my hand onto the wood floor and Jamie’s soft snoring in my ear.