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The door shuts quietly behind them. Bob’s room is relatively bare, he doesn’t have any decorations, and the only personal touches are his deodorant and scent blocker on the nightstand. Natasha, standing so close to him he can feel her warmth through his uniform, takes it all in. The silence of their drive out here has carried a tension into the room, the quiet thrum of alive, alive, alive between them. He’s been hyperaware of her presence at his side since they woke up this morning in medical, when the staff had reset their patches. He can almost hear the beat of her heart. She’s not looking at his room, she’s looking at him. He opens his mouth; to thank her for the ride, or just to say something, anything, to break the thickening tension.
The next moment they’re kissing. His lips are on hers and hers are on his, warm and soft in the late morning sun. Her fingers cup around his jaw, cool and dry, directing him where she wants. His hands are on her hips, her back, fingers fisting in the poly blend of her khakis. His back hits the door. They spring apart, eyes opening to their new reality. He's caught in the kaleidoscope of her eyes, warm greens and sandy browns only slightly muddled by their breath fogging his glasses. Their bodies press together, the soft swell of her chest against his, the hardening bulge in her pants, lining up against his own. His arms around her pull her impossibly closer, her mouth on him is devouring. She slots a leg in between his and they both groan. There’s something frantic in the way they clutch at each other, pressing against each other, closer, closer. He is hungry for the feel of her skin against his, under his hands. He pulls her shirt up by the fistful, sliding his palms over the smooth skin of her back, his fingertips graze over her bra strap. Her nails scrape over his stomach, dip lower. Then, those cool fingers are wrapping around him. The thud of his head cracking against the door echoes in his ears, inside his skull. Natasha’s teeth scrape against his throat. Her hand pulls in one long smooth stroke. Stars dance under his eyelids. The pads of her fingers tease the tip of his cock. His trail over her skin, until he can do the same. She is hot and hard in his hand, her skin is soft and silky smooth against the calluses on his fingers. He strokes her, breathing in her damp, shuddering pants, faces pressed together, sharing breath. He swipes his thumb through the gathered wetness at her tip and she gasps. Then her lips are on his again. Devouring. Hungry. They kiss, and pant into each other’s mouths. Soft noises fill the space between them, the quiet, slick, sounds of fists sliding and squeezing between them. Then she flattens her palm over his length, trapping him between her hand and his belly. He cannot help the groan as she dips lower, stroking down over his folds. Her fingers curl, slowly. Two pushing inside him inch by torturous inch until she’s sunk in to the knuckles, her wrist pressing gently against the base of his dick. The feel of her, the scent, the sound of her panting breaths, their slick-sliding skin, overwhelms him. His head falls back against the door with a second, resounding, thump. He can do nothing but gasp for air as her fingers work inside him, letting the sensations roll through him. His hand spasms and falls slack around her cock as he is carried on waves of pleasure building, building, building to a crest, a crescendo that sends him tumbling over, and over. He feels when his whole body pulls taught, muscles seizing tight, his fist clenches involuntarily. The sound of her choked off cry at the sudden sharp pressure reaches his brain long seconds after it reaches his ears, only after the ringing fades.
He lowers his face to meet hers, eyes still fuzzy. Their loud panting is the only sound in the still atmosphere of the room. Nat slowly pulls her hand away and he whimpers at the loss. Then her hand is on his face, gripping his jaw, he can smell himself on her fingers. She pulls his face towards hers, claiming his mouth, tongue punching her way inside, and Bob is subsumed, once again.
Eventually, she leans back. The grip of her fingers relaxes from his jaw. Her fingers, delicate and calloused, circle his wrist and gently draw his hand out of her own unbuttoned slacks. She tucks herself away. He hears the zip. The briefest push of her lips against his again. Closed this time, almost chaste. And then she’s gone. He’s left alone in his dorm room with the scent of Natasha and sex still lingering in the air. His bed is still perfectly made, where he left it yesterday morning. His spare uniforms and civilian clothes are neatly hung up in the provided closet. There is nothing here that’s out of place except him. His shirt is tacky, stained up to the collar, and his uniform slacks are soaked through.
Bob brings a hand up to his face, running the pads of his fingers over his lips, where they still tingled with the memory of Natasha’s touch. He feels his face stretch in a helpless grin. The uniform is a loss. He dumps it on the little desk chair – he didn’t exactly bring a laundry hamper – and heads to the showers. His face in the mirror looks different, the lines are all in different places than he’s used to, his lips are swollen and still red. He looks… like an omega. He thinks, maybe, that isn’t so bad.
Outside, Natasha slams the door of her sensible little Mazda and leans forward to rest her head on the steering wheel. There are wet spots on the front and back of her khakis, so she allows herself to indulge, briefly, in wallowing in the self-recriminations and guilt that are quickly eclipsing the warm glow she felt in Bob’s room. In his arms. In other things too – No, Bad Tasha! She shouldn’t be thinking like that! Especially not about an omega hadn’t shown any interest at all in anything beyond a professional relationship before they’d crashed and nearly died! God, Pops is going to be so disappointed. He’d taught her better than that. This wasn’t how mature, responsible alphas behaved! And she’d seen the way Ma had taken to Bob. How can she tell him she lost another WSO? And by acting like such a knot-head!
But there’s nothing else for it, so she reluctantly starts the car, and turns to head towards home.