Emily

Marrying you was a privilege, between the sugar-sweet words you whispered to him before dawn and the tender pads of your fingers on his jaw, from the way your eyes softened when you settled your gaze on him.

He almost hated it when you looked at him like that as if you were revealing some weakness of sorts to him. Vulnerability. A soft spot for a man who didn’t have room for fragile things. Something entirely too delicate for a man who couldn’t hold flesh in his palms without leaving finger-shaped bruises and welts.

Soft is weak.

His father taught him so.

He saw it in the way his mother smiled through the pain. Hid her tears behind closed doors and in dirty blanket sheets.

The same way he learned to bottle it all up. Maybe then he’d become stalwart, an unbreakable wall of steel. Lacking dents no matter the amount of scratches.

And yet, you still married him. Like you thought a certificate and a ring would reveal his soft underbelly or tender spot on his scalp that didn’t grow hair.

Maybe he wasn’t the only one to blame for the destruction of the marriage. You knew who he was, yet you painted a soft image of him.

You weren’t happy. He saw it on your face, lips tight when he left his dirty boots on the floor, dropped his clothes in the hallway right where he left them. Exactly how you had asked him to stop the day before. When your back faced the door as he came home late from one too many drinks with Johnny at the local pub without a response to your text.

When he would come home from assignments and you had lost a significant amount of weight, your eyes blood shot from crying because he hadn’t answered any of your calls. And the first night back he’d fuck you like he missed you too, leaving stucco fingerprint stains on your skin, whispering promises he’d break the next day.

When you had asked him, fingers shaking, if he would ever leave the SAS for you, for your marriage because you couldn’t take it anymore, he shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

He didn’t even fight for you, he signed the divorce papers the moment you presented them. Why would he fight for something he knew he didn’t deserve in the first place?

He was his father’s son after all. He didn’t know how to love shiny things when he was the muddied water.

How was he to know he couldn’t do it without you?

It took him one year to leave the military. Two more to change his ways. And yet, he hadn’t pursued you after.

He just let himself wallow in his own self-pity, lie in the bed he made— always the right side, in the room the two of you shared, your cream sheets still pressed to his skin. They’re tainted now, stained darker than they were before, but he hadn’t let go of them. Not when they reminded him of the warmth he used to wake to, your absence.

Just how he left your Chapstick in the dish on the coffee table, hair tie hanging off his turn signal switch in his pickup.

Just in case.

One day you’d walk back in like nothing changed except him.

Five years ago he was a different man entirely. He was just a boy then, could only hold his patience in the palm of his hand, gentleness only seen on the nights he’s returned from somewhere entirely too dark. It’s vast now, his patience, gentle hands practiced, docile and tender to fragile hearts.

Shiny, soft things.

He was his father’s son after all. He had to learn to cherish the warm things, how to melt his steel wall into silver heart pendants and glimmering rings.

He took you for granted. His loneliness taught him so. The ache in his chest was the cruel lesson for it all.

The local pub became his harsh reality, staring down the barrel of his empty beer bottle, one too many drinks sloshing in his abdomen, a glimmer of the warmth you gave him burning his throat and settling thick.

The bartender knows him by name, knows his order without having to ask. Gives him a sympathetic smile every time he sits at the booth alone, every time he turns down an unwanted patron that’s barely the legal age, giggling and drunk in his ear, slurring about how big he is with a hand on his knee.

It burns through his jean-clad legs, disgust curling in his chest because it’s not what he wants, never was. At first, he was kind about it, with the supposed learning to be a better man for you and all, smiled tight at them, let them down easy. Now, he’s stopped giving them sympathy, just pushes them away with a sharp “Not interested.”

The bartender had asked him one day, “How come you never take any of ‘em home? You got a wife?”

That damn word. Wife. He hated answering the question. It brings bile to his throat, bitter on his tongue when he responds.

“Nope.” He takes a large swig of his beer.

“Then why ya leave here empty-handed every night?”

“Don’t want ‘em.” Simon had shrugged.

Simon despised the sympathetic look, like he was some poor bloke who lost the only thing that mattered to him and was too late to realize that until it was gone. Until you were gone.

Like some lonely drunk. But he wasn’t—not like his father. Three beers is all he limited himself to on his visits and for a man of his size, it did nothing to lighten the pressure on his mind or the tension coiled in his lungs. Thick and stuck, lodged somewhere deep that bitter malt couldn’t ever wash away.

And just like a poor, lonely bloke, he goes home alone. No one warming him up when he curls into bed with slender fingers and soft kisses to skin. No sweet scolding, telling him he shouldn’t be out so late in the cold, or that he shouldn’t drink so much. Instead, he’s got your sheets— gone cold long ago.

It’s the same routine when he wakes up, laces up his boots, the ones he should’ve replaced months ago, and trudges through the mud and snow to a job he’s only kept to distract himself. It’s grueling work, physically taxing, heavy machinery and never-ending demands. He likes it though, makes him focused, keeps him in shape even if there’s a soft layer of pudge to him that he didn’t have before.

The men he works with are younger than him, and lack the discipline that only the military beats in someone. He doesn’t miss it for a day, the military, regrets not leaving for you. It was all he’s ever known, all he ever amounted to, he didn’t know how to leave it.

He sees his old team as frequently as he can, Johnny tags along to the pub when he visits. That’s the only time the bartender doesn’t look at him like he should be holding any sympathy for him.

He still remembers his last day— John had shaken his hand, pulled him into a tight hug after. Sad smile on his lips as he nodded in recognition, understanding, he was the only one who ever met you.

That’s his routine, the sympathy he doesn’t deserve for mistakes he’s made. He thinks life is playing a sick joke on him one day.

Your laugh comes first, even through the loud music blaring through the speakers. He draws his shoulders back, straightens himself out at the sound.

His eyes find you next, perched on a bar stool, fruity martini in your grasp, laughing at something the bartender said. He thinks the world stops, everything else blurring and your smile the only thing worthwhile, the music mute, drowned out by your laugh, by the pounding in his ears.

It’s been years, he’s certain you moved out of town after the divorce. And yet, there you are. Untouchable grace, better than he ever remembered. You’ve got age to you now, maturity, the crows' feet at your eyes more prominent, smile lines deeper than before, but your skin glows, even under the shitty bar lighting.

His ring finger burns where it lies, pinched between his blunt fingernails to make it stop, metal cold against his skin. It only worsens when there’s no silver on your finger, not remarried, still his.

His mouth's gone dry staring at you, mapping out the new depths of your features. His first thought is to rescue you from this shitty bar and take you home, remind you who he is again.

He doesn’t think twice.

Your scent hits him first, sweet and flowery, the same smell he’s been chasing after for years. It makes his nostrils flare, hair standing on the back of his neck.

You turn around like you knew he was there, a smile on your face dropping when you lift your eyes from his chest to his face. Your mouth parts, words wiped from your lips and sticking to the walls of your throat.

“Simon.”

It’s barely a whisper, but it’s so loud to his ears, deafening. He’s waited to hear his name from your pretty lips, imagined it late at night.

“Love.”

He watches your skin heat, a warmth he’s put there, from shock or the term of endearment; he’s not sure. He doesn’t care what caused it.

It’s a few seconds before you stand, realization slowly dawning on you. You go in for a hug, pushing to your tippy toes to wrap around his shoulders. His hand spreads around your back, possessively curling to the other side of your waist, pulling you to his chest so tightly you squeak.

You mold around him, like two pieces falling in place again, smaller frame engulfed in his strong hold. You’re so warm under his palm, even through your clothes, warm and so fucking alive. Something he’s missed so badly, his girl.

It’s supposed to be brief, friendly, but he holds you for a beat too long, keeps the weight of his palm on your hip, presses his nose to your hairline, and inhales deep.

Your hands shake when he finally pulls away, using your chair as support, gulping thick when he sits in the empty spot next to you. No intention to ask if he could join you, he won’t let you get away again.

He orders a drink, the bartender eyeing him with a knowing look, like he finally had enough balls to approach a woman.

He just doesn’t know it’s his wife.

“It’s been a long time.”

He chuckles lightly, “Just three years.”

“That’s it?” You joke, tilting your head teasingly.

He smirks, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “Oh? You didn’t know?”

“Never crossed my mind.” You quip.

He has half the mind to know you’re joking, but the words still claw at his heart, like you hadn’t thought about him for a day.

“What brings you back?”

“Friend’s wedding.”

You point to a group of women sitting at a table in the corner, one of them wearing a bright pink sash with the words ‘Bride to be.’ They’re all looking, watching the interaction with amused smirks and wiggly eyebrows waved your way.

He wonders if they know. If you’ve told them about him. If you’ve told them with venom in your words what a shit husband he was or you smiled with your eyes, sad over a waste of a relationship. Somehow he thinks it’s worse if they don’t know him, if you never cared enough to mention him after the fact.

“I left the SAS.”

You turn towards him, eyes widening for just a second, not long enough to show him you care. “You did?”

He hums. “Two years ago.”

“Little too late, don’t you think?” You huff a laugh, but it’s quiet, lacking any true amusement.

“A man’s gotta learn from his mistakes.”

You meet his eyes, unwavering, like he just might still have a hold on your seams.

You clear your throat, eyes shifting to your glass. “What do you do now?”

“Logger”

You laugh, “That’s one hell of a shift in uniform. You wear a flannel?”

“Suspenders an’ everything.” His lips curl over the edge of his teeth.

“I’m sure all the women love that look.”

“Don’t know if they do.” He shrugs.

You squint at him, “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Haven’t been with anyone else.”

“For three years?” Your grip tightens around the glass, words a bit breathless.

He nods.

“Why?”

“I have a wife.”—“Ex-wife.” You correct.

“Divorce papers mean nothin’ to me.”

“I’m not your wife, Simon.” You say it assertively, like you’re trying to convince yourself too.

“I never stopped being your husband.”

He means it.

“I stopped being your wife.”

You don’t.

“Yeah?” He tilts his head.

You nod, licking your lips.

“But you never remarried.”

“How do you know that?”

It’s accusatory, as if he had been stalking you. It’s simpler than that, sweetheart. It doesn’t take obsessive behavior to notice a hand with no ring.

Maybe it tinges his heart, just a little, that you’re not wearing his.

He runs his fingers along yours. “You don’t ’ave a ring.”

The silver of his ring glimmers, “You still wear yours?”

“Never took it off.”

“You’re full of shit.”

That’s when he knows he’s pulled the last thread, unraveled you right there on the spot, bleeding heart and all.

“You didn’t miss me?” He muses, suddenly crowding your space.

You take a deep breath, steadying your voice. “Not for a second.”

He wonders if your friends are watching still, if they think they should come save you before you do something you’ll regret the next day, before he throws you over his shoulder and they never see you again.

“No?” He’s so close he can feel your breath on his cheeks, smell the tequila between each shallow exhale.

“Definitely not.” It takes everything in him not to taste it on your lips, take what’s rightfully his.

“Come home with me.”

“Fuck you.” It’s your best attempt, he knows that much, but your voice is still meek, reeking of something else entirely.

That brings a quirk to his lips. “T’s why I’m tryin’ t’get you back in our bed, sweet’art.”

———

Simon watches you from the bedroom door, shoulder against the frame as you stand in the middle of the room.

“They’re still the same sheets.”

“Mmh.”

You turn to face him, “Just— Just because you kept the ring and the stupid sheets doesn’t mean I’m sleeping with you.”

“Never said tha’s why.”

“I’m not sleeping with you.”

He walks across the room, stopping once you craned your neck back so far it hurts. “Then why’d you come home with me?”

“Tequila.”

Simon snorts, fingers trailing on your shoulder, “I think, you knew comin’ into my town— our town, meant I wouldn’t let you leave again.”

“Not everything’s about you, Simon Riley.”

“No, but it does pertain to me when it’s about my wife.”

His hand slides higher, deft fingers curling possessively around the back of your neck, thumb at the divot of your jaw, leaning in so close your noses almost brush, until all you can breathe is him.

“I’m not your wife.” It’s a stuttered whisper.

“Tell me to stop, then.”

All that denial, and yet, you cave under him, flesh gone tender to the pads of his thumbs.

He surges forward, lips colliding with yours. Your hand finds his wrist, a muffled sound spilling from your throat. All that denial, but still, you kiss back with the same ferocity. Bruising lips and velvety tongues assuage the brute force.

Your top is torn off in seconds, thrown on the floor in the same instance he sprawls you out on the bed.

Same stained sheets. Same shitty mattress.

It’s like clockwork, the way both of you move in sync, dusty cogs finally running on a loop again. You try to fight it, just a bit, for some shred of dignity you think is worth saving, push at his chest, stubbornly shorten the kiss so you can breathe. He just takes it as an opportunity to map his lips along your neck, an opportunity to wrap his arms around your frame and pull you closer against the grooves of his.

God, he’s hard against the seams of his jeans. His hands are everywhere and nowhere at once; body, lips, tongues, and teeth he’s been dying to taste all under his fingertips.

Your pants soon follow the forgotten path, dainty lace panties revealed.

“You wear these jus’ for me?” He snaps the band against your hip.

“Didn’t even know I was going to see you tonight.”

“That’s okay, like ‘em better off you anyways.”

You inhale when he slips them off, laid bare between his fully clothed body. He watches you squirm, toes curling in the sheets when his thumb drags slow along your clit, building a rhythm he already knows you like. It’s instinct, a routine he never forgot, deft fingers already melting into your warm flesh.

“Tell me,” He murmurs, lips pressed to your ear as the rough pads of his fingers tease your seams, “When’s the last time a bloke got you off?”

“None of your business.”

“My wife’s business is also mine.”

“Many other men filled your place.”

“ ‘ts okay, just gotta remind her of me again.”

You open your mouth to retaliate, but he sucks the words right from your throat with two fingers, glides them right into your pussy without warning. You feel just like he remembers, just how he pictured it when he was desperate at night. Warm and gummy flesh, tight and so fucking sweet.

Your eyes widen when you feel it, when you realize the cold wedding band on his finger is now pressed to the inside of your scorching cunt.

You push at his wrist, “Simon, your ring.”

He hums, “You feel it, dove? Never takin’ it off, right where it bloody belongs.”

His fingers find that spot in seconds, the tender one that turns you soft, just a few inches deep, body going doughy under the pleasure. That’s how he likes it, when you finally give in, let your muscles sink into the mattress, succumb to one nudge.

You breathe heavy through your nose, lips pinched tight, and eyes clenched shut as he curls his fingers against that spot over and over again. Wet cunt squelching each time he flicks his wrist back just enough to leave the tips before pressing forward again.

He likes the sound, lewd as it is, likes the sound of your breath increasing in intensity with each stroke, but he likes your voice even more. Loves when it gets all breathy and broken and so sweet, when you can barely stutter out a response beside his name.

“Let me hear you, sweet’art. Always sounded so pretty for me.”

You manage a glare, biting your bottom lip as if to hold your noises even deeper in your chest. He laughs, it’s cute the way you pretend you don’t like it, like your pussy hadn’t clenched tight around his fingers when you felt his wedding ring, like your pussy didn’t leak at the thought, seeping your arousal over the silver, and into his palm.

He retracts his fingers, makes a chipped whine slip from the cracks of your teeth as he does. He just tuts his tongue, shaking his head because he’ll get what he wants when your walls stretch pretty for his cock.

His pants and boxers are peeled off before you can even blink, reddened cock slapped against your stomach in the same breath, precum smearing below your belly button. Your brows clench tight, lips falling wide when his head pops through your walls, fingers clawing their way to his shoulders.

He kisses the corners of your parted lips and coos like you somehow forgot how big he was. He guides himself until he finds resistance, walls overwhelmed at the sudden intrusion, quivering around his girth.

“Jus’ a bit more.” It’s a lie, he’s barely halfway, and you’re already tense, breath stuck somewhere along the way.

When he bottoms out he groans deep, eyes rolling as he drops his forehead against yours, finally home. God, he won’t let you walk away again, not like this, not when this is where he belongs, not when your pussy already molds to the shape of his cock.

He looks down, where the two of you are connected, where your pussy parts for him. It’s a sight, the way your lips cling to him when he ruts his hips ever so slightly, when you make a high-pitched sound as the bulb of his tip bluntly grinds against your cervix.

“Theerrre she is.” He croons, and he’s not entirely sure if he’s talking about your cunt or the fact that you finally let him hear your voice.

It’s too deep, he knows you don’t like it when he bullies your cervix, but he couldn’t resist, not like this, when he hasn’t been sheathed in your warmth in years. He pulls back just enough when tears well in your eyes, when he can tell you’re about to whimper that it’s too much.

“Any of those blokes get you like this?” He breathes it in your face, makes you know you’re his, “Quiverin’ and fucking shakin’ on their cock?”

“Shut,” A whimper breaks your words apart, “Up.”

His hips are slow, languid, curling his hips against yours until they snap against each other, forces all his weight on you. Makes your legs wrap around his hips because he knows that’s how you fucking like it, nice and calculated, slow strokes that bump against your sweet spot with each agonizing drag.

That’s your favorite, when he takes his time to take you apart, it’s his favorite because it leaves you a shaking mess, clinging to him desperately. Even if he does like to plow into your cunt, fuck you deep into the sheets so fast all you can see is white. He just needs to make you cum once before he breaks you in half.

He smiles at your denial, like you have any room in that fight, like you’re not clamping down on his cock with each drive of his hips, like you aren’t arching into him for more, like he isn’t the only one who knows your body this well.

“Listen to her, she fuckin’ missed me.” He grinds back just to make a show of the way your pussy gushes around him, “Fuckin’ missed her too.”

That does something for you, makes you mewl loudly, face buried in his neck to hide from him, or maybe to get impossibly closer to him.

“Missed you.” He whispers it in your ear, emphasizing by fucking into you a little harder. “Missed my girl so much.”

Your fingers dig into his skin, a garbled sound stuck in your throat.

“Missed you, too.”

It’s like everything perfect in the world is in his arms again, admitting that you did miss him.

“Fuck baby,” He grunts it out, the words having an effect on him he didn’t expect, “Say my name, please.”

And god you do, with arched toes, and a voice so breathless as you orgasm, pussy clenched so tightly around him his pulse stops. He stuffs you full at the same time, balls pressed to your ass as his cum spurts in your walls.

Your legs are shaking around him, aftershocks of your orgasm running through your veins as he fucks all his cum deep in you. He keeps himself tucked, not letting you get far when you’re right where you belong, with his name on your lips, and a hazy look in your eyes.

It’s a few seconds of you blinking at him, quiet whines falling from your lips because he won’t stop grinding his hips, can’t resist when you’re so warm and pliant and filled with his cum.

“Too much, Si.”

The smile on his face hurts, “I know, baby, but have t’make up for lost time don’t we? Have t’make sure a baby sticks.”