bi-polar
Fucking Irina Derevko is not like making love to Laura Bristow.
Jack knows this -- somewhere deep in his mind he knows this -- and yet, each time he's confronted with the difference, it startles him briefly.
The curve of her hip, the soft growl she makes when he kisses her neck, these are what he instinctively remembers as Laura -- wife, mother, lover -- years of soft sheets and softer embraces. And then she turns, and there's a scar, or she moans differently, or the look in her eyes is raw and feral, and that -- that is Irina, and his mind, that voice in the back of the head that has been complaining all this time, citing rules and regulations and the sheer wrongness of sleeping with (no, fucking) Irina Derevko, it laughs and repeats her name over and over.
She laughs, and it's Laura-Irina-Laura, alternating gentle touches and fierce kisses, teasing and pushing him further and further, always taking that extra inch.
Laura would give and Irina just takes, grasping his shoulders and hips and pulling him into her. And the wet-hot-sex feel of her blurs the lines again, to the point where, with his eyes closed, the past twenty years never happened and the past heartache never fell, and they're in their little house, with a sleeping toddler in the next room, trying for another.
And then she shifts, or he traces his fingers over what could only be a bulletwound, and he snaps back into now.
Irina pulls and Laura squeezes and Jack doesn't know who he's fucking (making love to) anymore.