Her palm is damp. He rubs at the bottom of her ring finger a bit; notices what he's doing and stops. (After Callahan, she had a tan line there for weeks. It finally faded with the cold weather--one day Sam looked over during parade and it was gone, nothing but smooth skin. He remembers being stupidly glad. I've always liked the autumn. Yeah.)

McNally whimpers, one heel sliding along the tile, restless. The back of her knee's gone slick with sweat. She's so wet there's almost no friction when he licks, tongue just gliding up and over. Sam works two fingers inside, strokes her where she's so tight and swollen and ridiculously warm it stops the breath down the back of his throat.

"Sam, god--" And jesus, she sounds. "Please."

Well. Sam doesn't need to be told twice (begged, actually. Doesn't need to be begged twice, and god in his heaven, he can't-- He's hard, he's so fucking hard against the freezing tile, and it's just--) He twists his fingers, flattens his tongue over her clit. Shakes his head from side to side. And that--

"Sam, fuck."

--That's got her.

It's a good one, he can tell, her nails in his hair. But then she's pulling him up before it's even over, one hand under his slippery chin, thumb digging into a bruise. Impatient.