“okay.”

“the shoulder?”

“just bruised.”

“leon.”

“just bruised,” he repeats.

you move to the shoulder anyway, peeling back his jacket and the shirt beneath, and he lets you check it without complaint, which is how you know he’s exhausted. the man argues on principle when he’s got energy to spare. you clean it and tape what needs taping and try very hard not to notice the warmth of his skin under your hands or the way he’s been watching your face this entire time with an expression you can’t quite look at directly.

you’re reaching for the antiseptic when his hand closes around your wrist.

“leon—”

“i just need a minute,” he says quietly. he tugs, gently, and you let him pull you in, let him wrap both arms around you and press his face into your neck and breathe. you feel him exhale, long and slow, and something in him unknots by degrees.

you’d been so careful. so focused on not smothering him, not making it about you when he was the one who’d been gone for six days doing god knows what, and here he is holding on like you’re the thing he’s been waiting to get back to.

“i missed you,” he says into your neck. low and a little rough. “the whole time. just kept thinking about coming home.”

you pull back just enough to look at him and he looks back, tired and earnest and it makes your chest ache, and you kiss him soft and he makes a quiet sound and kisses you back deeper, hands sliding from your waist to your hips and pulling you closer, tongue pressing against yours.

“your ribs,” you say against his mouth.

“are fine.”

“leon—”

“are fine,” he says again, and stands, and you go with him.

he takes his time with you the way he always does after he’s been gone. hands relearning you like he’s been thinking about it the whole ride home.

he presses his mouth to your throat first, lips dragging slow, then your collarbone, then down your arm, the inside of your elbow, your wrist, back up to the soft skin of your inner arm and closer to your underarm and you feel heat rise to your face because it’s so intimate, so careful, like he’s paying attention to parts of you that nobody else thinks to.

he reaches behind you and unclips your bra and pulls it off and then presses his face between your breasts and hums, a satisfied sound, cheek against your skin. not rushing. you card your hands through his hair and feel the tight thing in your chest finally, finally come undone.

when he finally settles between your thighs and looks at you, blue eyes soft, you reach up and touch the bandage above his brow without thinking.

“hi,” you say softly.

“hi,” he says back.

he pushes into you slow and you feel every inch of him. the thick drag of his cock stretching you open, his heat filling you so completely your breath stutters and your walls flutter around him instinctively, pulling him deeper. he goes still for a moment, forehead dropping to yours, panting.

“god,” he exhales. sounding a little wrecked. “missed you so much. missed my girl.”

he starts to move and you feel everything. every slow thorough roll of his hips, the slick grip of your walls around his girth pulling tight each time he draws back, the warm wet heat building between you with every stroke until you’re arching up into him and gripping his shoulders. his forehead stays on yours, one hand laced through yours against the pillow, the other spread warm at your hip like an anchor.

“missed you,” he murmurs again, like he can’t stop saying it now that he’s started.

his mouth finds your neck and he’s kissing you, licking at your skin, so very desperate, like he’s been starved of you, which he has, dragging his lips up to your jaw and back down to your collarbone and back up again like he can’t decide where he needs to be, like everywhere isn’t enough. his hips keep their rhythm but his mouth is everywhere, tasting you, breathing you in, and you feel the low sound he makes vibrate against your throat.

“just need you,” he mumbles against your skin. “just my girl—ah—just need my girl.”

you don’t answer. you can’t. he feels too good, in too deep, filling you so completely that coherent thought is somewhere far away and you never want to come back from this, never want to move from this exact spot, his weight and his warmth and his mouth on your skin.

his hips stutter, pace faltering, and you feel him getting close, but his hand slides between you without hesitation, thumb finding your clit, pressing in slow circles like even now, even while edging closer to his own release, he’s not going to cum without you. you gasp and clench around him and he groans into your neck.

“cum,” he breathes. ragged. “with me. cum with me, baby.”

you do. your walls grip and flutter around him and he comes apart right after, shuddering, face pressed hard into your neck, your name leaving him in breathless moan.

he stays there after. his body heavy, face in your neck, very still. you don’t move either. you’re not sure either of you could.

a long quiet moment passes.

“…sorry,” he says eventually. muffled against your skin.

“for what.”

“came straight from a mission.” he murmurs. “didn’t even shower. just got you all—” he shifts slightly, almost self conscious about it, which is so endearing on him you could cry. “sorry.”

you laugh softly, hand moving through his greyish blonde hair. “leon. i genuinely do not care.”

“still.” he lifts his head and looks at you, a little sheepish. “shower with me.”

he peels himself off you with great effort and pulls you up with him and you both stand there for a second, equally wrecked, and he looks at you in the low light of the bedroom with something so soft in his face.

then he takes your hand and walks you to the bathroom.

Seated in his recliner, he sat shirtless, his cowboy hat slanted over puffy strands of mahogany hair, the vent of his jeans unzipped so the waistband of his boxers were on display. There, he'd sit, patient, one hand wrapped around a glass of hard liquor, the other around his cock.

Stiff and swollen, the crown of his length peeked out from beneath his boxers, dribbling sticky strands of arousal over his abdominal. He might have taken a picture, and he might have sent it, accompanied by wicked lines stating how pearly strings would look layered over your crimson-red lips.

You hadn't felt him in over a week - his message would do it's job.

And it did.

In his part of town, running red lights in the middle of the night wasn't frowned upon. And he could see it, your steady grip on the wheel, your canine embedding into your bottom lip as your cunt ached, throbbing, tempting your mind with fantasies. In a few, you couldn't wait, one hand steering your truck straight while the other dove between shaking thighs.

Caleb groaned. Pleasuring yourself, although an absolutely divine image, made him swallow in envy. He would prefer it was his fingers slick in your arousal, compressed by your muscles, experiencing each clench that came with a particularly delicious curl of his fingers.

He had tasted you prior to your departure. Before you had left town, you had stopped by his place, and he had your rear seated on the armrest of his couch, legs splayed wide, his jaw slack as he lapped at your cunt. Every pull over your clit had you digging your heels into his back, your nails in his scalp.

"The only reason I'm not fuckin' ya," he had mused, chin shiny, tongue exhausted, "is 'cause last thing you need on a plane is me drippin' out of this perfect pussy."

That memory had his fist tightening at the base of his cock, and his wrist twisted, staving off some pain. He checked the clock above his fireplace mantel. It had only been two minutes, and you were about twenty minutes out.

The minute he heard your truck pull in, he knew he would remain in his chair. To listen to you fumble to unlock his door from your own madness fueled more of his fire. How you might stumble through his door without shutting it, how you might eagerly climb into his lap, take a swig of his drink, and sink down on him forced molten heat through his veins.

His cock pulsed, veins adamant beneath his palm. At the head, he ran his thumb over the slit, collecting a glob of slick, coating himself from root to tip, easing his stroke. You loved when he did that, made it wet and messy, coaxing your tongue out to play.

While love, respect, and adoration was prevalent between the two of you; times like these, when you were both frantic, lacking any restraint, well, even desire herself colored.

You would ride him tonight, there was no question about that. After you came, he'd lift you, take you against the wall, rough and fast, then lay you on the bed, slow and gentle. A common routine whenever you two spent time apart. If that wasn't enough, which it wouldn't be, with strength in his hands he'd maneuver you onto your stomach, lift your waist, then snap his hips against yours, buried to the hilt.

He halted over his cock, breathing deep, just the echo of your cry out nearly made him topple over the edge. His name was always said in a tatter of breath, wrecked, and wanton. Hearing it over the phone this last week was all he had needed.

Another two minutes.

Caleb's stomach dropped, cramping from how long he had restricted his release. He had half the mind to climax there, request you follow the trails of molten liquid with the tip of your tongue, then fuck him.

So many things to do, so many things to request, so many filthy things to say.

His hips vaulted upward, thrusting his cock through the ring of his fist. He set the glass down on the end table, and reached for his hair. Fingers slipped beneath the brim of his hat, and it fell, overturned on the ground. He needed the bite of your tug, so he pulled his own hair, arching. Sweat dripped down his chest, beads following the divet of his muscles.

The sight of him when you entered would be erotic.

"So desperate for you," he breathed, "need ya to fuck me good, pip."

His hand flew for his phone and he unlocked it with a quivering thumb.