James had been dating Samantha Carter for three years before he finally proposed six months ago, slipping the simple platinum band onto her finger during a quiet evening on the balcony of their off-base apartment.

The ring caught the city lights like a captured star, and she’d kissed him so fiercely they never made it to the bedroom that night.

Their sex was always intense, a constant undercurrent in their lives. Most nights, even when Samantha returned from missions bone-tired, eyes heavy with exhaustion, they still found each other. She’d collapse onto the bed, uniform half-unzipped, and James would peel the rest away slowly, reverently, until she was bare and arching beneath him. Her big, thick breasts bounced with every deep thrust as he pounded into her, relentless, chasing the sounds she made—sharp gasps, low moans, the occasional broken curse when he hit just right. He loved watching her lose control, loved the way her body responded like it was made for him.

He loved eating out her wet pussy almost as much as fucking it. He’d push her thighs wide, bury his face between them, tongue delving deep into her slick folds, lapping at her swollen clit until she bucked against his mouth, fingers tangled in his hair, begging incoherently. The taste of her—salty, sweet, pure Sam—always drove him wild, his cock throbbing untouched as she came hard on his tongue.

He had a particular fascination with her nipples. They were sensitive, responsive, darkening to deep rose when aroused. He’d discovered early on that wooden clothespins—simple, unforgiving—drove her wild. The pinch of the clamps, the way they gripped the tender peaks, always sent a jolt straight through her. He’d watch her squirm, breasts heaving, nipples trapped and throbbing, and it never failed to make him painfully hard. More often than not, when his parents visited for dinner, he’d quietly ask her to wear them under her shirt. The conversation at the table would turn stilted, awkward—his mother’s eyes flicking to the faint outlines beneath the fabric, his father clearing his throat too often. Samantha would sit with perfect posture, cheeks flushed, pretending nothing was amiss while the clamps tugged with every breath. The moment the door closed behind his parents, the sex that followed was volcanic—raw, desperate, fueled by the secret thrill of the afternoon’s tension.

He’d met her father, Jacob Carter, not long after they started dating. The retired general was stern, his gaze sharp and assessing, the kind of man who’d seen too much to trust easily. At first, Jacob had been wary, sizing James up like a potential threat. But over time, something shifted. One weekend at Jacob’s cabin, James had spent the morning chopping firewood out back—shirt off, muscles flexing under the sun, axe rising and falling in steady rhythm. Jacob watched from the porch, coffee in hand, and by lunch his expression had softened. He saw the way Samantha looked at James—open, unguarded, genuinely happy—and it eased something in the old man’s chest. He knew his daughter was in safe hands. She’d always carried too much responsibility; now, at last, someone matched her fire.

Jacob never said it aloud, but the Tok’ra symbiote in his head sensed the unspoken truth. Jack O’Neill had grown older, slower, weighed down by years of command and loss. He’d never retired to marry her, never quite crossed that final line. Samantha needed someone who could keep up—physically, intellectually, emotionally. James wasn’t a theoretical physicist, but he was sharp in his own way: quick-witted, mechanically inclined, with a dry humor that cut through her stress like a knife. And he was undeniably easy on the eyes—tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of lean strength that came from discipline rather than vanity. Samantha’s gaze followed him whenever he worked out in their living room, sweat tracing paths down his back, muscles shifting under skin. She never hid her hunger.

From the little she shared with her father during visits, their private life was rigorous and inventive. Nothing seemed to scare James off—no kink too dark, no boundary too sharp. Every time she came over to Jacob’s house, he noticed fresh bite marks on her neck, faint bruises blooming under her collar like secret signatures. He pretended not to see, but the Tok’ra noted it all—the flush on her cheeks, the relaxed set of her shoulders, the way she moved like a woman who was thoroughly, repeatedly claimed.

Jacob didn’t need to worry anymore. Samantha Carter had found someone who could handle her gravity, her brilliance, and her darkness.

Sex with Major Samantha Carter was always intense—especially after a mission.

James could always tell when Samantha Carter had just returned from a mission. The moment she crossed the threshold of their off-base apartment, the air shifted—charged, electric, heavy with adrenaline and unspoken need. Her tac vest hit the floor with a soft thud, black t-shirt following in a careless arc. Before he could even form a greeting, those full, flushed breasts pressed against his face, warm and soft, nipples already stiff from the lingering rush of combat and anticipation.