Black Rose





I’m trained to withstand mind games and various forms of torture, really I am. I’ve had years of instruction and God knows enough practical application to hold out against all sorts of inhumane treatment, mental and physical.

 

But she’s killing me here, using nothing more than a suit, a pair of shades and a wad of gum.

 

It’s embarrassing. If I get any stiffer I’m liable to start pounding the underside of the briefing table at this rate, and don’t think for a minute she doesn’t know it too--that smirk is SO damned obvious in its smug assessment. Rose knows full well what’s happening to me, and eating it up with a spoon.

 

How did this all start? When she walked into the room, duh. Rose never NEVER just walks anywhere, no she saunters, swinging her hips with just a hint of sexpot to her stride. I’ve watched those hips for months, fantasized about holding them close enough to grind against them, pulling them closer in far more urgent applications, if you get my drift. It definitely started with the hips, baby.

 

Then she encased them in a little black skirt, topped with a little black jacket. Emphasis on little, kids. I’ve heard statements from Teal’c that were longer that her outfit. Being a civilian, she’s got the freedom to wear whatever she wants to the mountain, and today, that freedom included a chance to flaunt some serious leg. I bet the checkpoint guys got neck cramps tracking her down the hall—God knows I would have.

 

Okay, so the little black suit is definitely high on Jack’s secret list of personal yummies. Nothing wrong with that—Rose looks hot in black; makes her freckles look exotic, makes her blue eyes crackle, if you take the time to look up that far. Did I mention the suit is form fitting? Did I mention my damn slacks are too, now?

 

So Rose has the suit on, saunters in, and she’s also got—hold the phone—shades on. Meltdown number two. I can’t explain it—for some weird exotic reason, the fact that her eyes are hidden behind thick black glass is enough to move me out of yellow alert and straight into code red. Women in shades are always slightly intriguing, but Rose in sunglasses is enough to flame broil my libido. Hothothot—how soon is this damned briefing over and where’s the nearest closet I can drag her into? The others are going to come walking in at any minute, so Jack’s gotta be a good boy for now, but Jesus give me strength, it’s gonna be a loonnng meeting.

 

Rose. In the black suit. In shades. There may be about three brain cells that aren’t focused on this, and those three are very lonely.

 

I want to make a crack about her being a woman in black, but before I can, she leans over the table, giving me a nice eyeful of the suit’s low neckline and blows a bubble.

 

Ah shit! This is NOT covered by the Geneva Convention or the Human Rights league! A big luscious pink bubble gum bubble ballooning out of those wet lips, the soft hiss of her breath—I’m getting dizzy. Must be because all 6 pints of my blood are trying to make it into my crotch. A faint scent of strawberry wafts over to me as the big bubble pops.

 

“Got a problem, Colonel?” she murmurs in a low, oh so taunting voice.

 

A problem. Oh yeah. A big honk’n problem I intend on correcting as ruthlessly and immediately as possible.

 

“Your ass is mine, woman—“ I growl under my breath as the door behind her opens. She pulls back with another little smirk and takes the seat opposite from me as the kids and Hammond come in. Maybe they can sense the tension, but all of a sudden they’re a little uncomfortable.

 

Gee, let me think—could it be the raging hormones radiating off of me?

 

Hammond gets everyone settled down, except yours truly, and starts in on some damned thing or another. I’m putting on my best passive face, nodding along, but keeping my eye on the naughty security advisor fewer than two feet from me. She murmurs something about eye drops and sensitivity to light and keeps the shades on. This breathing thing is getting tough.

 

It’s also fascinating to see that everyone else is having some trouble focusing. Daniel’s squirming like a kid who has to go to the bathroom. Teal’c is blinking about once a minute—twice his normal speed there. Even Sam is starting to fidget with her pencil, twisting it in her fingers. Rose turns to stare at the other woman and the tip of a pink tongue comes out to wet her upper lip—

 

Who moaned? Somebody at this damned table moaned, just under their breath.

 

Shit, I think it was me.

 

Carter’s blushing, so help me God, actually blushing. This is getting out of hand. The only person seemingly unaffected is Hammond, God only knows why. He turns the meeting over to Rose, and sits there waiting patiently.

 

What is the man, a eunuch?

 

I mean pardon me, but Rose is up on her stiletto high heels, the black suit clinging to her gorgeous torso like it was sprayed on, and those shades and that pouty mouth, and—

 

The door opens and Maybourne the Maggot steps in. He takes one step, sees Rose and wobbles a bit. Honest to God, he actually staggers, not that I blame the shit-sucking weasel. He’s pale.

 

“Colonel Harry Maybourne—“ Rose rumbles in a menacing purr. “You’re late.

 

He has no clue. Not a fucking clue how to react to a dominatrix glaring at him from the front of the debriefing table. Rose turns her dark lenses on him and he quivers like a rabbit. I can see his damned nose twitch, and even though he’s got eagles on his shoulders, he’s blushing.

 

Frankly I feel like kicking his ass through the top of his skull. I’m not possessive, not at all, but unless he rolls his tongue in, I’m going to reach over and snap it like a window shade.  

 

“E-excuse me—“ he tries to take charge, but Rose, bless her evil little heart isn’t about to let him. She taps her high heel and gives a noisy sigh.

 

“Obviously you have no idea who I am, Harry.” She begins menacingly. “ Let’s correct that, shall we? I am the appointed security advisor for SG1 from the Department of External Services. Call me Professor MacGyver.”

 

Whoa, a professor? Well La di da--From where I’m sitting, it’s obviously a degree in intimidation, not that I’m opening my floodgates of pity for an asshole like Maybutt. Rose has crossed her arms and is keeping her icy glare on the NID rep like he’s a naughty schoolboy in need of a good paddling.

 

Oh damn, I didn’t need that image.

 

She shifts those wicked hips and sighs, looking around the room at all of us.

 

“Obviously this can wait. General Hammond. I suggest you finish briefing the team while I take Harry here to my office and have a little chat with him.”

 

“Certainly,” Hammond nodded genially, totally unaffected by the Killer Queen and her clueless victim. Note to self: gently hint to Fraiser that maybe Hammond’s overdue for an eye exam and a testosterone check.

 

She stalks out with little Maybunny trailing helplessly behind her; the door slams, cutting off my view of the two finest Asses on Cheyenne Mountain complex, and I turn to Hammond.

 

“For crying out loud—you wanna clue us in on what that was all about, sir?”

 

Okay, I don’t mean to sound so cranky, but we’re due through the gate in one hour, I’m still hard as hell, and the very galling thought of Maybourne in a tiny office closet with slinky black Rose is making me grit my teeth.

 

“Consider it a subject not open for discussion at this time, Colonel.” Hammond rumbles at me, and there’s enough of a smirk on big George’s face to tell me that yes indeedy there is More To This Than Meets The Eye.

 

NOW I’m pissed. It’s one thing to be out of the loop, but when the loop involves Rose getting into hottie mode for a droolrag like Maybourne, I am one decidedly unhappy camper. Color me psychotic, kids.

 

“All right,” Daniel murmurs, “But I hope Rose’s eyes are going to be okay.”

 

Ah Danny, Danny, the clue bus took off without you again, didn’t it? I scowl at him, but Carter catches my look and has the temerity to nod slightly.

 

When will this briefing END?

 

 

Out the door, down the hall, around the corner to the elevator, ride to the 36th floor, out and down the hall, cut to the left—New record—made it in under two minutes. Panting a little, yes, but it’s not all exertion, let’s be honest here. I grab the knob and knock and turn all at once, not gonna give Rose a chance to say no, not in—

 

“Was there something you wanted, Colonel?”

 

Ohhhh baby. She’s leaning back in her chair, long legs up and crossed on the desk. Maybourne is sitting on the edge of the guest chair, swallowing nervously and for once I can’t blame him--I mean, shit. When your whole line of vision runs from sweet creamy thigh to a high heel dangling seductively off stocking covered toes, the average male brain turns to mush.

 

Was there something I wanted? Grunt. Point. Look for club--Speaking coherently is hard. Getting thoughts in logical order is hard. Lots of other things are hard right now, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to give Maybastard any chance to know that.

 

In the iciest tone I can muster, I hiss out,

 

“SG1 is due to the Embarkation room in less than twenty minutes—“

 

She blows another bubble, big and wet and pink, and if I clench my jaw any tighter I’m gonna give myself a root canal. Oh Rose is going to pay, and pay dearly for this day. She will be lucky if either of us can walk—

 

“Oh I’m not going this time, Colonel. Harry and I have a few more things to discuss. I’m sure you and the team will carry on just as well without me—“

 

It’s too much. The legs, the shades, the bubble gum--As efficiently as I can, I yank Maybourne out of his chair and stuff him out the office door, hissing,

 

“May the professor and I have a moment--?”

 

Like he had any sort of chance to say no, dumb bastard.

 

I turn back to her highness the ultrabitch, and even though there’s a desk between us, I’ve got long arms and a lot of frustration. She’s got agility and petiteness, so we’re evenly matched for this chase around the desk.

 

“Get a grip Jack!” she commands, spitting out her gum and dodging me too easily.

 

“I’m trying Goddamn it!”

 

“Just back off and let me do what I need to do, okay? You’ve got a planet waiting, and I’ve got a skanky toad to placate, so just calm down and—“

 

Ah yes, snagged her—once Rose gets talking she’s easily distracted. It’s not that simple to drag her over the top of the desk, but I know she doesn’t want to make any noise and have Maybutt come dashing back, so she lets me haul her in.

 

Ahhhhh yeah, come to poppa . . . mmmmmmmmmm, that mouth is deeply luscious and strawberry flavored, and damn that tongue’s always worth chasing . . . want her, want her want her—

 

She still has the sunglasses on—Jesus, I didn’t think I could get any stiffer. It’s either gonna be a quickie throwdown, or SG1 gets to go through the gate with Jack the Ripper—

 

“Mmmmmph! Jack stop! Not. Now!” she growls at me. I love growling women. Growling women in shades, with about three inches of skirt—

 

Oww—she means it—she’s peeling back my fingers practically to the wrist now, and some of the pain receptors are reporting back that this is Not Fun.

 

“When?!” I’m licking her ear, I know the right spot, and she’s writhing like an eel. Nice to know this is a two-way thing.

 

“I don’t know! When you get back, okay? Tonight, after my dinner with Maybourne—“

 

Oh no. Nononononono. Whoa tilt stop, do not pass go, collect two hundred dollars or run with scissors. No dinner with Maybourne. NO. Particularly in the suit. He is not getting steak along with my cheesecake—

 

“Wrong. You are not going to dinner with the Maggot—“ I insist, in my most threatening voice. It would be a whole lot more effective if I weren’t right in the middle of trying to get my hands up her skirt. Rose shifts a knee up, resting it just under my cojones, so I know she’s serious. One of us is gonna face charges in a moment—a court-martial for attempted rape on my part, and criminal charges of cold-cocking a colonel for her--it’s a hell of a stand-off, ladies and gentlemen, broken only by a rap at the door.

 

 “Colonel O’Neill it is time,” comes Teal’s rumble.

 

Shit—if it had been anybody but the Monolith I might talked them into going away and have gotten some, but Nooooo, now Jack has to got through the gate with his own staff weapon still undischarged, damn it.

 

I hope to God there’s something that needs killing on the other side of that wormhole today.

 

Reluctantly let the black widow go after one last tasty suck on that wriggling tongue. I am pleased to note that she’s as hot and bothered as yours truly, even though she’s trying to pretend she isn’t. Fat chance--the other half of the room is now steeped in runaway estrogen. For that alone I should take a victory lap. Preferable Rose’s, but the Gate awaits. I decide on the tactical retreat, slipping my own shades on, moving swiftly to open the door.

 

Maybitch’s there, mouth open so wide you could sink a regulation size basketball into it. I’m tempted to blow him a kiss and truly freak his pea-sized brain, but I can’t crack the grim set of my jaw at the moment.

 

Dinner with the Maggot. If he so much as breathes on the woman behind me, someone’s back iris is gettn’ closed for good. Yes, I’m an unconscionable bastard—so what else is new?

 

***                  ***                  ***

 

 

Damn planet. Picture if you will a quiet woodland, devoid of anything remotely interesting. Same rocks, same trees, and same squirrelshit we’ve seen on dozens of previous planets. The kids are wandering, making it a point not to be in my proximity—nice to see those survival skills kicking in at last, even for boonie boy Daniel. He’s not as far afield as Carter who is making a concerted effort to be out of the Grumpy Bastard Zone, so I walk over to him.

 

He looks up, guilessly and I frown.

 

“Hey Jack—not thrilled to be here, huh?”

 

The glare I shoot him is roughly 3400 degrees centigrade, but he refuses to turn into a smoking crater. Or shut up, apparently.

 

“So what’s up with Rose? Did she go to a funeral today?”

 

No, not yet, Space Monkey, but I’m looking at a potential Dearly Departed right now. Daniel studies a clump of dirt like it’s the key to the meaning of life and keeps talking. I start fingering the trigger of the P90. Even across the field, Carter sees this and shakes her head.

 

“I mean, she was really . . .” Daniel is struggling. The world-renowned linguist is trying to grapple for the right word. Lemme help you out, Dannyboy--Hot. Try Hot. Try salacious or totally friggin’ doable, right there on the debriefing table, woof!

 

“—Out of line,” I growl, taking pity on the little bunny foofoo in the cammo hat. Daniel shakes his head, unaware that he’s tap-dancing through a minefield at the moment.

 

“—No, just different. A lot more forceful. I have to admit it was great to see the air go out of Maybourne’s sails—“

 

And straight up his ass, apparently. I have no doubt that at this moment, if slinky black Rose told him to wear a clown nose and sing the final solo of Aida he’d be doing it. I don’t even want to contemplate how close I’d be to doing it. I grunt, which Daniel takes as some sort of agreement.

 

“Hey! You think she did it on purpose?”

 

This innocent little question brings me up short for a moment. Is it possible? Would Rose deliberately combine three harmless little erotic factors into a megaton libido bomb?

 

The correct answer for those of you playing along at home is yes. The woman’s sweet and modest, but under it all she’s got a ruthless streak from here to Abydos, second only to my own of course. No question about it, she did it on purpose.

 

I give another grunt and check my watch. Just how freaking long does it take to collect water dirt and air samples? Come on Carter!

 

“Because if she did, then there’s got to be a reason—“ Daniel charges on, rolling with his theme, leading it like a damned wagon train over the rocky terrain of my current mood. My finger tightens ever so slightly on the trigger again, and Carter is scurrying up, brows drawn together in total disapproval. Reluctantly I back off.

 

“I mean let’s think about this—Cui bono, right Jack? Who benefits?”

 

Who benefits? Right now it’s that toe-sucking Mayboil who’s benefiting, at my damned expense I might add. I DO NOT want this conversation to continue. Daniel muses on, oblivious.

 

“Maybe she’s feeling a need to assert herself—“

 

She can assert herself as much as she likes, as long as it’s naked and under me. Soon.

 

Carter taps my elbow and flinches. Must be the charming smile I flashed at her.

 

“Sir, we’ve got about as much as we need—I think we’re ready to go—“

 

And not a damned minute too quickly. We’ve been here for six hours and that’s about three hundred and sixty minutes too long. I lead them back to the gate, and no my pace is not too fast, even though Daniel and Teal’c are jogging and Carter’s flat out running to keep up.

 

Wimps.

 

“Geez, Jack, in a hurry to get home?” Daniel puffs disapprovingly. I’m not going to dignify that with a response since Carter’s smirking and even Teal’c looks as if he’s faintly amused at something.

 

“Dial—“

 

Daniel does sulkily, but I don’t give a damn—he hasn’t had to carry these indigo clankers around today.

 

Whoooshsplish we’re back rah rah. We get the usual prod and nod from Damnit Janet, hit the showers and we’re outta here. Thank God Hammond’s waived the debriefing until tomorrow.

 

Currently I have plans for debriefing of a different sort involving myself and Ms. BubbleYum, and woe be to the little pisspot who gets in my way.

 

It’s after eleven by the time I get to a certain townhouse, and by the lack of lights I come to the fully irritating conclusion that she’s not home. The lack of lights better damn well mean she’s not home. Since I have a key, letting myself in is not a problem. Making myself comfortable on the other hand—

 

Let’s leave the hands out of this. Tempting as a quick little rubdown might be, my frustration fuels my annoyance so beautifully it seems only right to keep it simmering until the Queen of Sin makes it home.

 

Halfway through my second beer I hear the car drive up. A quick peek through the curtains brings good news and bad: Rose is home and Maybarf is with her.

 

Shoot him now or later—choices, choices.

 

Point of fact though, Rose dismisses him on the porch with an imperious wave of her hand. She tucks the doggie bag into his moist little paws and murmurs something I can’t quite hear to him.

 

I recognize the low luscious tone she’s using though—that ultra sexy one that bypasses the brain and heads straight for the groin. Mayboff is gonna be spanking Hank before he gets to the highway, oh yeah, and I’m a man divided as I stand there inside the door. Rage and lust are throbbing through me, albeit in different sections of my anatomy. The door opens, I poise to pounce—

 

“Don’t you dare!” she growls.

 

What more invitation does any man need I ask you?

 

In the O’Neill lexicon, ‘Don’t you dare’ clearly means ‘Do me right here and now, Big Boy’ and I’d be remiss to pass up such a definite summons. Rose squeals and makes an attempt to dodge, but hey, that Special Ops training is clearly just for occasions like this. Well this and a few other things too, but I digress.

 

Frankly, this is where Rose gets hers.

 

Tight grip, kisses, no time for breathing, breathing is for wimps. Sucky slurpy wet kisses, all over your face kisses, oh yesssss.

 

“Jack you bastard . . .” she’s panting while I continue the assault on Mission Objective one, Little Black Suit.

 

“This is a Donna Karan original!”

 

“Kiss it goodbye, Rose, it’s history—“ I wheeze over the satisfying sound of shredding fabric. Somehow I’ve managed to drag her adorable little ass over to the living room and fling her on the sofa. There’s just enough light from the open front door to see the panic in her eyes.

 

Sweet.

 

Despite my crappy knees, I leap and do my best impersonation of an African lion bringing down a gazelle.

 

It’s actually an aging Air Force Colonel bringing down a hapless Security Advisor, but what the hell—

 

“Damn it, you are such a frigging Neanderthal, Jack!”

 

“That’s right, talk dirty to me—“ I grin back. I can afford to be smug--I’m on top.

 

Oh damn this woman under me is beautifully upholstered. Curvy, soft, and so much lovely skin under that annoying fabric. I’m aware of her pounding her hands on my back, but it’s minor, really. She’s gotten into the kissing now, and suddenly I’m the one having some trouble breathing. Her throat, succulent. Her collarbones, completely edible, her big firm round chest—you’d think nothing short of a tactical nuclear strike could distract me at this point, but sure enough those hips start grinding, and suddenly Jack is In Trouble.

 

It always comes back to the hips, doesn’t it? Those hips are gonna be the death of me, and I am so completely looking forward to it.

 

“Fine—bring it on, flyboy—“ comes her throaty taunt. Rose has her tongue in my ear, and I’m frantically yanking at clothing--hers mine, somebody’s let’s just get naked here—

 

Fumbles, scattered buttons, oaths, and then that gloriously throbbing moment when push truly comes to shove. Nothing matches it. Nothing every will--that slow first thrust that simultaneously sets every nerve alight, that shoves a sobbing grateful groan out of your throat as you reclaim your personal commitment to the identity of Alpha male asserting what’s clearly his.

 

See, I can be a sensitive man, damn it. Parts of me are incredibly sensitive at the moment, mostly those bits buried deeply in the succulent she fiend under me. Rose writhes. I cannot help but love a woman who wriggles. And moans. Particularly my name along with nasty descriptive praise as I pound away. Oh God--I can’t grit my teeth and think of hockey scores much longer, but Rose being the darling little slut that she is rockets past me in the orgasm express. Seconds later, having done my courteous stint in the ladies first department I gratefully follow, bellowing like the naughty love beast that I am.

 

Hey—she called me that, all right?

 

 

Sated, saturated and smiling, I manage to get us reversed on the sofa—no mean trick in itself since we have not parted company so to speak. Rose is light, and comfortable, and in a better position to deal with anybody peeking in the open door, right? I mean, considering the noise we just made, I’m sure the homeowner association rep is probably on her way over to read us the CC and R code while I hide under my blanket of satisfied woman.

 

Damn it, I must love her. I’m sleeping on the wet spot.

 

 

***                  ***                  ***

 

 

For the record, I’m not at all the sort of man who snuggles. Or indulges in blowing raspberries on tummies, or demands to know who’s your daddy—

 

Unless severely provoked into it by means of incredibly good lay.

 

At that point Kate O’Neill’s little boy is completely shameless, God forbid any other member of SG1 ever discover this fact. I mean, I do have a hardass reputation to defend and uphold. This merciless reputation would not be enhanced by the knowledge that said heartless bastard is even willing occasionally to haul his hairy ass out of bed and make breakfast for the victim of his lust.

 

This is not one of those mornings, thank God. I can smell bacon, pancakes and coffee as I start to wake up, and yeah that big shit-eating grin is mine of course. Not only have I gotten laid, I’m gonna get fed too—life doesn’t get much better than this. Climbing out, I scrounge for the sweats I’ve left here and work my way downstairs to find the sweetheart of SG1 flipping flapjacks.

 

Women with spatulas are sexy, but dangerous to pounce on, as my smarting forehead will attest. Rose refuses to mix sex and cooking—one of the few quirks that annoys the hell out of me. I sulk and take my coffee to the table only to find it covered with files and papers. She snorts.

 

“So, Caveman, having trouble clearing off the table?”

 

I sneer at her back and sweep a pile of the stuff off to settle myself in. Good golly—parts of me are a tiny bit sore this morning—mostly rug burns and scratches. Rose drops a plate in front of me, and sits across from me, munching on toast.

 

Could it get any more freaking domestic? I expect Daniel to come loping in and demand an advance on his allowance, or Carter to waltz by on the phone talking about boys for crying out loud.

 

Rose is giving me that speculative look and I snort—no point in sharing this bizarre fantasy with she of the shredded suit. She waves the crust of bread in her hand at me.

 

“Maybourne.”

 

“Please! I’m eating!” God, like I want his image in my head this early in the morning. Rose plows on relentlessly.

 

“I got access to his psych file: Classic example of repressed Oedipus complex compounded by secondary fetishes and control issues,” she announces brightly, like I should applaud. I glare at her over the mug.

 

“So?”

 

“So I talked to Hammond and asked for a chance to do a little experiment.”

 

A bulb overhead clicks.

 

“The whole kitten with a whip thing—“ I manage. Rose beams at me.

 

“Bingo. If I hit him right in the psych lims, I figured I might have a chance of keeping him distracted from SG1 business. Hammond was the only one who knew.”

 

“So the whole thing was a ploy to get the Maggot to leave us alone?” I finally process this information through a mouthful of pancake.

 

“Pretty much,” she admits, snagging some of my bacon. I give this all the due consideration it deserves and drive to the heart of the matter.

 

“That’s my bacon.”

 

“—And judging by the day I had yesterday I’d say it worked,” Rose continues. “He’s pretty easy to redirect.”

 

“I’ll bet—“ I’m scoffing, not liking the memory of Maybugger zeroing in on Things Too Damn Good For the Likes of Him.

 

Rose snickers, such a cynical sound for this early in the morning.

 

“Gee Jack—I should have cross-referenced your file before I started—it might have saved you the eight hundred dollars that suit’s gonna cost to replace.”

 

I choke. The coffee’s hot, that’s it—never mind that Rose is snorting now, waving the scrap of bacon like a baton.

 

“Yessireebob, eight hundred, and that’s not including the tailoring and pressing, Colonel O’Neill—“

 

“Okay, okay,” I grumble. It’s not the money here—I’ve got that—it’s the gloating attitude. Rose has found one of the Jack O’Neill switches. I knew she knew about the gum—I was stupid enough to tell her about that one myself—don’t ask—but the others?

 

She shoots me one of those evil glances and I’m curious and worried.

 

“So?”  Gee I’m so witty in the mornings—a regular freaking Noel Coward sometimes.

 

“So—wanna tell me about your repressed fascination with being dominated by forceful women?” Rose laughs into her coffee cup.

 

Oh yeah, like she doesn’t have a secret weakness herself, the cunning linguist. To wit---Three phrases in any foreign language and this woman is syrup in the hands of the speaker. It doesn’t matter what you say, since she can’t speak any of them—just direct them at Rose in the right tone of voice and she’s yours.

 

So far she’s succumbed to my German, and my woeful Italian. I’m beefing up on Latin and Farsi for the coming months, with plans to use the latter in a rousing game of The Special Ops Commando and the Grateful Hostage.

 

I smile dangerously. “Nein.”

 

“Oh you will tell me, Jonathon Michael David O’Neill—“ she commands, rising out of her chair and mock-glaring down at me.

 

It’s an interesting twist to hear this from a woman dressed not in leather or spandex, but fuzzy flannel baby dolls—I love the tone, but the outfit has definitely got to go. I try a little more German to counter.

 

“Bilden Sie mich, Schatz,” I growl at her. Yeah, Make me Sweetheart. She wavers, biting her luscious lip in a way that tells me that I might very well have a good shot at Hot Sausage with breakfast if I play this right.

 

“Flanell erhält mir heißen,“ I throw in for good measure. Flannel gets me hot—Geez the things I say--She’s swallowing hard now, especially when I get up, move behind her and rub her shoulders. Yesssss, Jack is on the verge of Gett’n Some, round two. Rose is shivering a little, and I can feel the heat.

 

Moving in for the kill, I lean down to her shell-like ear, kiss it, and lay in the bombshell--

 

“Überhaupt es mit einem hornigen Oberst? “ yes ladies and gentlemen, that actually translates to “ Ever make it with a horny Colonel?”

 

Oh boy, that does it—just as she spins and begins to lay some serious tongue on her darling of the Rhine, I see three faces at the sliding glass door watching us, noses pressed to the glass. Well all of them but Teal’c’s.

 

Great—the kids.

 

Rose is looking at me, I’m glaring at the three of them, and damn it, Carter and Jackson are laughing their asses off.

 

Of course—

 

Daniel not only heard what I said, he just translated it for the other two Stooges, so goodbye any chance at dignity this morning, not to mention round two. Rose pads over to the door and opens it.

 

“You guys want some pancakes?” she asks sweetly.

 

They come bustling in, and I can tell that they are not going to let this drop, no it’s going to be a living hell for the next month, easily. Daniel has piled his plate high and plunks down next to me, eyes sparkling as he starts to shovel in the pancakes that are rightfully mine, damn it.

 

“Soooo—“

 

“So. The average lifespan of smart-ass Archeologists is about to drop significantly—“ I warn from behind the coffee mug. He shoots me a very amused glance.

 

“Good command of German, Jack—“

 

“—from where I was standing I could have sworn it was French,“ Carter shoots, dousing her flapjacks with syrup and giggling. I look over at Rose, who’s loading up Teal’c’s plate and wincing.

 

And so it begins---  

END







     
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