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Annie isn't like this.
She doesn't drink so much, not ever. Not like the blokes, no stomach for Scotch, a glass of wine and sometimes a pint, but she doesn't make a habit of drunkenness. It's never seemed safe. Maybe long ago, at University, when she felt like the world was her oyster, all her classmates her friends, but the years in the force and the training she'd had made her cautious, and she doesn't want to be like some of the men at work. Not like Chris, puking in the hallway. Not like Geoff, or Frank, wobbling from the table to the loo, down at the Railway Arms.
But--the pub, and the blokes from work, and always the knowledge of where she's going home to at night and who she's going there with. Gene's house, which she used to think was a bit staid, old-fashioned, shockingly neglected and speaking loudly, with it's dusty corners and faded wallpaper, of how little the owner cared where he lived. But it's been so different there with Sam. How much energy he brings to a place. The way his shabby little flat seemed too small for his presence. The way CID itself seemed to flutter when he moved through the place, punching a hole through the clouds of smoke and rattling the windows to Gene's office.
Rattling Gene.
Not to mention herself, and the way she warmed when he looked at her, and the frustration that seemed to drag on forever when he seemed to not know how to act, how to perform the basic steps of courtship. What did it mean then, in Hyde, when you put your hand on a girl's chest? When you walked her home? Oh, the times she had wanted to slap him silly. Still, Sam came through in the end. Finally an end to games, an end to beating around the bush, and the moment when his hand slipped around the back of her neck and his lips touched hers, and she thought everything was going to be simple from that day forward...
She was too observant for that, though. And Sam too honest.
When she squeezes through the doorway of Gene's house, Gene pushing open the door while still keeping hold of her hand, Sam with his arm around her and his lips against her ear, nibbling as if he can't wait another moment... well, it's impropriety but of the very best sort. The sort she'd encourage every day if she didn't have half a thought for her job, her career--but then the door's closed and Sam's got her backed up against it, sliding his hands up under her waistcoat.
He's not like this, either. Not usually. Not with the door open. But they'd all had plenty to drink that night, and the intoxication of victory as well.
Gene takes time to shed his coat, but then he crowds up against Sam's back, leans over to bite his neck and thrusts hard against him so she's pushed back against the door. She groans, Sam groans, eyes half-closed and rolled back in his head, and Gene grins at her. Somehow they're conspiring against Sam, although to do what, she isn't certain. This time it's Gene running a hand through her hair, leaning over Sam's neck to demand a kiss--god, she can hardly believe herself at times like these. Two men. These two, at that, the most fascinating in all the force, and she's just little Annie Cartwright. What has she done to earn all this largesse?
"Upstairs," she gasps when she can find the breath. Not that they haven't been at it in other rooms of the house, but she's in the mood for a bed.
Gene's got a large bed. Bought the biggest one, after they'd started this. It wasn't like him to get sentimental or attached to objects, but he said it was a good excuse to get rid of old memories when he ditched the bed he used to share with the missus. Annie would have felt obscurely guilty if she hadn't felt so grateful, because it said things without words, that he was willing to make that change. It said all the things he stomped around--no tiptoeing for Gene Hunt, and no subtlety in love.
Sam leaves his jacket on the stairs. Gene leaves his loafers, and then his belt and trousers, which means she makes it to the bedroom first and has time to unbutton her waistcoat, hurrying because sometimes it all goes slower when she has the kind of help they're likely to offer. She's down to her stockings and bra by the time they make it through the door, but that's only because they stopped for a brief makeout session/pounding in the hall. Gene's hair is every which way and he's wearing nothing but his pants, the striped ones, which do nothing to hide his considerable erection. Sam's still got his shirt on, but at least one button is missing and his nose looks like it got punched. Not bleeding, but close. They're both breathing hard.
"Good of you to show up," she says pertly, and turns her back to undo the latch of her bra. False modesty goes a long way with men; she knows that from experience. That's all it takes to get them right next to her, helping her with things. Sam easing the straps over her shoulders, cupping her breasts with a worshipful look on his face, Gene pulling her knickers down, pressing himself urgently against her arse. And there's her pert control of the situation gone all to hell, but it's not as though she minds; being between them, stroked and worshipped and taken, is what makes all of this worth every moment of anxiety and impatience.
Onto the bed, then. She's got so much power at times like this, and she'd blush if she had to describe it to anyone else, but--god, she gets her hands on their cocks and it's as if she's a queen or some kind of empress or something. It doesn't matter if they're her superiors at work. "You. I want you," she says.
"Who?"
"Just--I want you both. God, I want you."
"Ahh," Sam breathes into the crook of her neck, a sigh as she works him. "Is this how you want me? Because--um. Very excited right now."
"Oh, well then." She rolls to face Gene, his eyes already crinkling in a smile.
"Hello, petal. Something I can do for you?"
She doesn't answer him in words, just pulls him toward her, until he rolls on his side and he fits against her, soft, warm bulk and the strength of him and his cock sliding between her legs. His fingers, too, stroking her and easing her apart, and this requires a little adjusting, pausing and pressing the head of his prick into her.
"Christ," he breathes, half buried in her, the stretch just right, beginning to touch the ache that's been burning her up all evening.
"More," she whispers, and then it's Sam pressing the length of her, pushing her farther into Gene, reaching across her to steal a kiss--and that's something that she loves, that drives her surprisingly mad to watch; the two of them. Yes. Yes. Half-closed eyes and caresses and the two of them against her. Gene rocks gently, slipping more deeply into her. She loves the fullness of him, the bulk, the reassuring strength. She loves Sam's slim, wiry length against her, how responsive and communicative he is, even without words.
After a moment he rolls away from her and is off the bed. Gene nuzzles against her neck and murmurs, "Don't worry, Petal. I can take care of you."
Sam returns, warm against her again, and then he's got his hand on her arse and lower, teasing where she's joined with Gene. His hand is slick. He runs a finger up the crack of her arse and rolls around her hole, questing. They've done this before, at least once. She had been curious, Sam willing. He was always willing. Whatever she might want, he could ferret it out. He'd suggested things that made Gene curse and roll his eyes, whether from enthusiasm or disbelief. Sam, who seems like he might as well be from another planet, given his proclivities, is more adventurous and daring and--she can't say he's more lusty, but he seems to have fewer barriers than any other man she knows. This evening, apparently, he has branched out into mindreading; how else to explain that he somehow knew that she was wild for this, that she really does want both of them as close to her as possible.
He explores her with a finger while Gene thrusts lazily. She's half out of her mind with sensation, loose and wanton with it, her head spinning with the booze and the sex. Never before, never without these two, never could she even have imagined feeling like this. Not in her wildest dreams.
"Is this all right?"
"Yes," she gasps. "More. Keep--more."
"Give the lady what she wants, Tyler," Gene grunts, his hands on her breasts, eyes half rolled back in his head.
Sam presses his slick cock against her, thrusts slippery against her arse and she stills, angling her hips for him. "Yes, Sam, c'mon, yes." It's overwhelming at first, but he understands, he never moves too much, never makes her feel taken against her will. He always, always makes her feel adored, makes her feel that there's nothing wrong with what they're doing, even when she knows she could never tell her parents, her siblings, lord, even her closest friends.
She can't tell anyone about this.
All she can do is share, share it with them, take everything they want to give. Sam's inching into her, he's so careful to make sure that she's opening for him, that he's not hurting her. It's all slick, fiery sensation, the stretch of it, the feel of the two of them in her, how full she can be and how well it works. Gene's face is a picture. Sam groans against her, and then gives a slow, rolling thrust until he's buried.
"Please," she says brokenly, "I--want--" She can't say it, but she can ask for it without words, kissing Gene because he's right in front of her but pushing back against Sam, taking him as far as possible, and his hand snakes across her to cup Gene's face stroking Gene's cheek.
"Yes, darling," Gene murmurs, so soft she barely hears him, and she's held by them as never before, held and cherished and loved and taken, and they're connecting through her, they're touching each other around and through her. Sam's gasps, and Gene's, and her own, and the push and pull of it, how much she feels them, how aware she is of their cocks, their bodies. How much she loves their hands all over her, the soft light of the beside lamp throwing incongruous shadows on the ceiling, the pressure building in her--she has limits, she can't do this for long, not without more lubrication, but Sam's already making that soft, broken noise deep in his throat. His thrusts grow erratic, shuddering, fingers digging into her hip like he's holding on for dear life, and then she's breaking, too. Hadn't known it was coming, carried on the wave of Sam's orgasm, she moans as it takes her and buries herself in Gene's kiss, floating on the wave. Gene grabs Sam's shoulder and squeezes them both against him as he spends himself in her... Christ. It's a word Gene would use, but Annie borrows it for the occasion. Christ on a stick.
Their panting sounds loud in the resulting silence, broken only by the tick of a clock down the hallway, a tiny thrum of bedsprings as Annie sighs out and lets herself go limp.
"Good Lord, Cartwright," Gene murmurs at last.
"As if it's her fault."
"Not at all. I was going to ring her parents and thank them for their magnificent daughter."
"Don't you dare," she gruffs, but she's grinning at him, noses almost touching.
Sam eases himself out of her, then wiggles until he can rest his chin on her shoulder. "I am the luckiest man to ever--ever spend an evening in a pub with you two."
She puts a hand over his, comforting. She has a feeling that sentence was going to have a different ending before he caught himself. Not so much of the strange stuff from Sam anymore, although far more of the love and adoration. That had worked out quite well. She'd never thought Sam would be like this, nor herself, either. Nor Gene, to be truthful. Yet here they are, three in a bed, tidy as can be.
They make her feel young. They make her feel ridiculously powerful and free.