Blood kink going brrr

Rachel is the only person you’d trudge across the centre of London at night for. The only person you would abandon the warmth of a clean duvet for. She is as constant to you as the existence of your right hand. As predictable as the way your pointer finger clicks when flexed.

That is why allowances are made for her recklessness. For the way you accept that no one ever knows for sure where she is. Or who’s bed she flees from each night. It’s also how you know that when she calls at midnight, wailing and spitting over tears the vague address of a stranger, that you don’t question it. You go.

The city is still busy. London doesn’t sleep. It swells around its own excess well into the wee hours of the morning. The Uber allows you to watch it without being swallowed in its liveliness. If you weren’t on route to a stranger's flat to collect Rachel’s presumably drunken mass, the blinking of the city lights would be a welcome comfort. Instead, they act as a reminder that you don’t know who or what is out there.

“Pretty late to be out in pajamas.” The mostly stoic Uber driver announced. He’d been virtually silent for the past fifteen minutes. If you’d calculated it right, there was less than a few kilometers between the car and the steadily blinking dot of her location.

You try not to be sullen in response. When you look up to catch his eyes in the rearview mirror, he seems tranquil in curiosity- not creepy as feared. “I’m picking up my friend.” You mumble, forcibly vague. “She’s drunk.”

The man’s chin flexes in what might be amusement or respect- it’s hard to discern. “Must be a good friend.” He ponders.

You smile sardonically back at him. “The best.”

The conversation with the nosey driver plays on your mind even once you’ve made out the car. It’s delivered you to a nice end of town. It’s not a Surrey southern end. But at least a working professional corner of central London. The high rise ahead of you is comprised of entirely glass- sparkling clean, evidently well maintained. It’s not the worst place you’ve carried Rachel out of. You find it hard to imagine the boys she hangs around with living here though.

The last guy she dated was a part-time joiner, full-time bum that enjoyed spending her money on pints and weed. He lived in an old tenement block on an estate, somewhere you felt more comfortable than this flashy lobby.

Cleaning up after Rachel had become second nature now. The friendship had persevered through many messy break-ups and post comedown meltdowns. You gave her allowances on account of the love shared and the understanding of the childhood she had. But tonight she was pushing it.

Tonight, she was pulling you away when you had work in the morning. Dragging you into a situation blind. She didn’t sound like she was at a party on the phone- but she wasn’t coherent beyond saying that the boy she was with had abandoned her in a sketchy flat. From the outside looking in, you find it hard to believe anything sketchy went on in this complex. Other than maybe white collar crime.

You ignore the way staff stare at the padding of your slipper clad feet. You had the floor and door numbers, wedged between misspelled words in her text. Aside from that you have no earthly idea of who or what would be on the other side of the door you knock at. There’s no music or yells of intimate violence discernable from the long hallway you stand in. It’s as average as the rest of the building seems to be. Even the shuffling of feet closing in on the door seems unremarkable and calm.

Still, to be safe, you puff yourself outward. Attempting to masquerade as something sterner than you were. When the door pulls open, you feel silly at the thoughts you had of seeming tough.

The slump of confusion settles in your shoulders and brows to find a perfectly average man staring back at you. He’s handsome- that’s sure enough- but neither threatening nor ‘sketchy.’ The man had dark hair, just long enough to lie a bit shaggy on the front of his forehead. Not particularly tall or wide, but eyes a distinct shade of blue.

It isn’t until he gives you a head to feet down sweep that you realise what might make him dangerous. The sides of his mouth pull outward in a curling grin. You try hard not to shiver at the nerves you appear to feel almost suddenly. He was incredibly good-looking. But with a clear air of destruction.

All you want to do is speak but when you open your mouth, you find you’ve forgotten what it is that you’re even trying to do. He beats you to it anyway.

He leans back against the door in a lazy lean, arms crossed at his chest- displaying a couple tattoos curling around the swell of his bicep. “Can I help you, darlin’?” His eyes twitch in quiet amusement.

He’s northern. And charming. He’s also exactly the kind of trouble Rachel would find herself in. You shake all other thoughts from your head at once.

“I believe you have my friend.” You mirror his stance, jutting a hip out to punctuate your impatience. “And my name is not darlin.”

“How about bunny?” He smirks, nodding down at your slippers- that you suddenly feel are too pink. Still, you attempt to cover your flush with a sneer. He only chuckles under his breath. “Your friend a redhead? Enjoys getting shitfaced in other peoples homes and locking ‘erself in their bathroom?”

The sigh ricochets off your throat before you mean it to. “That’d be her.”

“By all means, come on in then.” He turns to the side and sweeps his arm in a welcoming wave.

Tentatively, you enter. He doesn’t move much so you practically brush against the guy. Pointedly trying to ignore the way you enjoy his boyish scent. The flat is as nice as the rest of the building would suggest. You feel underdressed in it. The larger window cut into an L-shape, exposing the columns of yellow squares that make up the landscape of highrises dotted around the city. It must burn a hole in his pocket each month. You don’t need to wonder why he can afford it when you see the collection of baggies and scales cluttering the coffee table in the centre of his open plan living room.

You stiffen upon the realization that he was a drug dealer. And by sight alone, a professional at it. The urgency to get both you and Rachel out only intensifies, even though he doesn’t appear to be an immediate threat. Spinning round, you try to avoid letting him see how uncomfortable you are with the proximity to the drugs. If he notices, you can’t tell. He just knocks the door closed with the pad of his bare foot.

The silence is deafening. He’s pretty stoic in the way he dresses you down with his eyes. He doesn’t seem bothered by your intrusion as he steps around to sit on his sofa. His fingers set to work at bagging powders on the coffee table, not looking up at you.

You clear your throat. “So…she’s in the bathroom?”

The smile he gives you back is sardonic. “It’s down the hall- bottom left. While you’re there, you should tell her not to hold herself hostage in future.”

You don’t wait around to ponder more on his advice. You were finding the whole thing deeply unnerving. The casualness of his tone while handling thousands of pounds worth of drugs. And the way you can’t work out what had happened to lead any of you here. The door he directed you to was locked but the light jamming from below the gap of it tells you she’s in there.

“Rachel, it’s me.” You call through. You’re praying she makes it easy for you. It’s not in her nature though.

There’s a clatter from behind but no snapping of a lock. “I’m not coming out until Dan comes back.” She’s slurring but intelligible which pleases you. It wasn’t a category five disaster. But she’s in one of her moods.

Pressing the flesh of your forehead into the cold wood, you curse under your breath. You don’t know who or where Dan is. What you wanted was to drag her out of this building by the shell of her ear for being petulant toward your care for her.

“You called me.” You hiss, jiggling the handle violently- as if it’ll give way with sheer willpower. It does not. “Dude, I have work tomorrow. And in case you hadn’t noticed there’s a bunch of drugs in this guy's living room. Get your shit and let's go.”

She says nothing back for a few baited moments before there's a thud against the door. “I want Dan.”

This is just like her to do this. More often than not, she’ll forget that she’s called. Or worse, doesn’t care. It’s aggravating, but nothing as demeaning as having to trudge back to the man in the lounge- no longer hunched over his table. Now, he’s leant back against the blue sofa, arms lazily thrown behind his head. It’s evident he’s heard the whole thing. You try to conceal the embarrassment of the best friend you chose.

“No luck, bunny?” He smirks. He’d obviously spent some time trying to coax her out. It becomes clear to you why he seemed to be amused by the confidence you’d charged in with. “Your friends a wild one, eh?”

The nickname he’d given you was unappreciated. It felt demeaning in a way that you can’t put your finger on yet. It’s there though. Like he perceives you as a meek character.

“Does it seem like I’ve had luck?” You snap. “How long has she been in there?”

The man raises a brow at you in some kind of quiet surprise at the tone. “Couple hours. However long Dan’s been away.” He corrects almost immediately.

You sigh and press the pad of your thumb into your eye. There was no telling if this guy would come back- whoever he was. “Can we get him back here?”

“Phones off.” He shrugs. “At least it was when I called an hour ago.”

“Okay, let's play a new game: I’ll be the problem, you be the solution.” You mutter offhandedly. “Listen, I’ve seen her shut down a bar and fight three bouncers before leaving. Unless you want to bash the door in, he’s gonna need to come back here.”

The stranger sighs and leans forward to swipe his phone off the table. He doesn’t take his eyes off you, even once he presses the phone to his ear. You’re willing higher powers at work to get this guy back before the break of dawn. There was no more PTO to be taken. You don’t think these circumstances count as extenuating in the traditional sense. Even though Rachel is as unpredictable an affliction as an act of God. At least God works in mysterious ways. This was just plain bizarre.

You busy yourself peeking around the flat. It’s boy-ish. Clean but almost as though he paid for it to be like that. You scrunch your nose at the Megan Fox poster hanging in a frame above the tv.

“Alright, mate.” You finally hear him mumble around the butt of a cigarette. He evidently didn’t mind smoke in his house. There’s a beat, punctuated by the flick of his lighter.

“Yeah man, she’s still ‘ere. Locked herself in my bathroom.” He’s chuckling around the exhale. It’s almost attractive, in a way you don’t wish to examine. “Nah, won’t come out. Her friends ‘ere.”

You shift uncomfortably at the intimation he makes to you. You doubt this Dan character has heard anything about you. Blue eyes drift up to find your twitchy standing, they’re swimming in an emotion you can’t make out.

“Didn’t say. Bunny slippers, kinda hot in a school teacher way.” He smirks, tapping ash off the butt.

The heat rises up past your cheeks and into your ears. You want to flinch away to hide the shame but then he’d only win. You were starting to find an urge to prove that try as he might, you’re not intimidated or amused by his forward nature. It’s hard to tell if it’s believable or if it was just spurring him on.

“Can you just ask him when he’ll be back?” You snap.

He raises his hand in a surrender- or to instruct you to quieten down. It’s hard to tell with him. His energy was uncertain. There was an element of unpredictability with this man. One that you struggle with. It’s not easy for you to relinquish control like that. But like with many things, for Rachel, you’d put up with it. For now.

He’s humming down the line. “She said she won’t go till you come back.” His eyes draw down in concentration. “Twenty minutes? Sound, man.”

Twenty minutes? You peek at your phone, confirming you’d be lucky to get home before one. You could go down and thrash the bathroom door in, but it’ll yield no results. It’s better to give in to her whims. Preserve your energy for getting her home and into bed. It meant that you were stuck with the random until then. He didn’t seem the type for small talk. Not the kind you're accustomed to.

The phone clatters back down on the table with a punitive slam. He doesn’t bother to address what the guy said. Just unpauses whatever reality tv show had been playing before you arrived. It’s at an almost mute setting. You make no moves to sit, or explore your surroundings. It doesn’t even occur to you that you should. Not until he says something.

“It’ll be twenty minutes yet.” He points out, not even looking at you.

“I heard.”

He groans dramatically. “Just sit down, will ya? Making me antsy.”

Any instinct for cognitive dissonance has gone out of you. You’re certain you’re not in danger now, but it would be nice to make the long minutes pass peacefully. So you perch on the edge of the sofa next to him, demurely clasping your hands in your lap. It was actually more comfortable to stand.

“Your friends fuckin’ mental.” He announces. “I barely even tolerate her lad, and she locks ‘erself in my bathroom. She make you come save her often?”

You side-eye the sudden casualty with which he speaks to you. As if you’re old friends. He’s not wrong in his assessment of the situation. It gives you pause to know this Dan guy isn’t even close to him. Who even are these people?

The sigh that escapes is clipped. You want to steal it back, like it’s an omission. “Rachel’s not crazy. She’s…adventurous?” You try. “And yeah, I do this a lot. Look, I’m sorry for the disruption. I’ve not even met Dan.”

You turn slightly to watch the information be digested. Maybe you could smooth over whatever offense has been taken. This isn’t the first time you’ve apologised for her. Won’t be the last, you’re certain. The smile he gives back is easy. Not accepting but like he isn’t surprised to hear your excuses for her. You only just notice the sharpness of his teeth. It’s endearing- but surprising. You figure he has the money for veneers or whatever cosmetic dentistry would fix that. Not that you imagine it’d be an improvement or anything.

“You ought to let her to get out of trouble on her own, you know? How’ll she ever learn?” He advises, stubbing out the fag. The smell won’t be missed. “My name’s Cook.”

Cook leans a hand over to you, palm up. You raise your brows at the absurdity of that name. It must be a nickname but still. The shake of his hand is slow and tentative. You feel yourself wanting to pull away as soon as you grip it. It feels too…just too much of everything really. It’s telling that he seems surprised when you reciprocate the touch.

“Cook?” You snort incredulously. “That your government name?”

The smile you get back is wry. “What’s it to you, bunny?”

The way your eyes roll back is almost painful. This guy doesn’t know what he wants to be. It feels like flirting. But the type that leads you to believe it’s not because you’re special. Like he’d do this to just about any girl that had stumbled upon his flat. It cheapens the slight flutter you feel without permission.

“Okay…Cook, you have people you don’t like much in your house often?”

“My line of work,” he nods at the bags still laid out. “More often than you’d think. But your girls boy works for me.”

You shut your eyes in frustration that you hadn’t worked that out before. “Of course, he does.” You whisper. Rachel would fall in line with a random drug dealer who takes her to his job. Why wouldn’t she?

There doesn’t seem to be much that need be said after that. The silence that you fall into is easier than it should be. But it doesn’t stop him from grabbing your hand on your way out the door after Dan returns- getting Rachel out the bathroom finally.

“You should keep what I said about her in mind.” Cook mumbles. You look at the hand of his that’s clasped around your wrist, then to the back of your friend being half carried out the flat door. “I’ll see you around.”

Paddy Mayne was not a man for romance or affection- or so he said.

Despite his poetic nature he simply believed he was no good fit for human contact, let alone love. How could he be when his mind was consumed with war, bombs, and filth from the sand and dirt, rotting him from the inside out. Paddy Mayne never believed he would make it to Berlin, his body was a ticking time bomb, simply carrying the conscious of a man only fit for one purpose, which was to fight. He was not a sacrificial lamb for the British, of course he, a proud Irishman, never could allow himself to do such a thing. Instead he had turned into a machine, a robotic being, hollowed out of all personality and emotions in commitment to the war.

Then there came you. A woman so vivacious and full of life, your cause dedicated to bringing others back to life, a juxtaposition to his own. Paddy Mayne was no stranger to attraction, but this was fuelled by something deep in his loins, an aching, a painful yearning that softened and soothed the raging fire inside his chest.

Like this, in a blown out room in the middle of Italy, Paddy Mayne was finally where he knew he belonged. His face pressed between your legs, hands roughened and calloused from overuse, smoothing over your arms, your breasts, your hips- any inch of skin that he could reach. When touching you from the outside was not enough, Paddy craved filling you up, combining you both as one, right where he belonged.

Perspiration from the humid evening gathered on his forehead and back, his eyes fluttered shut as he lapped the intoxicating taste of your sweetness. Your core was hot against his face, juices mixing with his spit as he worked his tongue and lips, sighing into you as though you were a remedy to his mental state. Utterly lost in bringing you to release, Paddy's eyes only reopened to take a look at your face, flushed and breathless from your pleasure, you were so deep in it now, he could tell you were close from the muscles in your abdomen tensing without release.

''Paddy.'' You cooed, the sound more beautiful than any instrument could produce. He only slowed his actions upon feeling the curl of your fingers around his hand, keeping him in place, locking in your connection as you clung to him in a manner nobody else ever had.

As though he was not a soldier, one of the most feared men in the war, he entwined your fingers, allowing you the support of carrying you through your release as your body began to shiver with each suckle of his lips and swipe of his wet tongue. Your back arched, and soon enough Paddy was bringing you through your bliss, coercing you through with gentle licks and kisses, eyes never leaving you as your hands clamped down to the back of his head like you never wanted him to stop.

He'd die a happy man if the war was to take him away now. With the taste of your cunt so sweet on his lips, your orgasm rattling him to the bones, it was a memory stored so deep in his mind not even old age could take it from him.

Then you spoke again, daring to soften the unbreakable further, reducing the man to dampened eyes.

''I love you Paddy.''

How could something be so simple yet evoke such a strong reaction inside of him? No poet had ever put into words how euphoric the feeling of love truly was, how sobering yet spellbinding it could be.

Years spent surviving behind bars hadn't exactly taught him how to make small talk. Most days Eric seemed more comfortable carrying fifty-pound boxes than ordering a cup of coffee.

And when it came to women? Especially one particular bakery owner?

He was completely hopeless.

"Morning, Eric."

His head snapped up, "Yeah. Morning."

He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and awkwardly glanced around.

You leaned on the counter. "So. What are we buying today?"

His eyes moved to the pastries. Then to you.

Then back to the pastries, "...Bread."

"You bought bread yesterday."

"Need more."

"You live alone."

"...I eat bread."

You bit your lip to stop yourself laughing.

"Right. Of course."

Eric cleared his throat.

The poor man looked more nervous every time he came in. You'd noticed it almost immediately. Eric could walk into a crowded room without flinching. Could handle rude customers, angry drivers, difficult bosses.

But the moment you smiled at him? The man forgot how words worked.

Sometimes he'd walk into the bakery looking like he'd rehearsed an entire conversation on the way over.

Then you'd say, "Morning, Eric."

And whatever speech he'd prepared would vanish from existence.

You slid a loaf across the counter. "Anything else?"

His eyes landed on a cupcake, "I'll take that."

"The pink one?"

"...Yeah."

You raised an eyebrow. "The strawberry princess cupcake with sparkles?"

His ears immediately turned red.

"Just give me the cupcake."

You burst out laughing.

The next week became a pattern.

Eric would show up and buy something completely unnecessary. Then stand there awkwardly.

Leave.

Then repeat two days later.

The thing was, you weren't stupid. You knew exactly what he was doing.

The man had purchased enough bread to feed an army, and one afternoon he arrived carrying a delivery box. You were arranging cookies when he walked in.

"Hey, Eric."

"Hi."

He lingered. You waited.

He lingered more.

Finally you crossed your arms. "Are you delivering something?"

He looked at the box in his hands as if he'd forgotten it existed.

"Oh. Yeah."

You laughed.

"Who is it for?"

He checked the label."...The flower shop next door."

"Then why are you in here?"

His brain visibly short-circuited. You watched him struggle. His mouth opened.

Closed.

Opened again.

"...Wanted a muffin."

"You don't even have a muffin."

"...Could get one."

"We don't sell muffins."

"Oh."

You grinned, "Oh?"

"Oh."

The silence stretched. Then you leaned forward, "Eric."

"What?"

"Do you actually like pastries?"

He hesitated.

"No."

You snorted.

"I knew it."

And the next day he showed up again. This time you were ready.

The moment he stepped through the door, you pointed at him.

"You."

He froze. "What?"

"Why are you here?"

His eyes widened. "Can't come in?"

"You can. But I want the real reason."

He stared at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at a tray of croissants. Anywhere except you.

You folded your arms. Waiting.

Eric shifted his weight.

This was exactly why prison had been easier. In prison, there were rules. Eric knew where you stood. Eric knew what people wanted.

Nobody expected him to flirt.

Nobody expected him to tell a pretty woman that seeing her smile had somehow become the best part of your week.

His palms were sweating. Over a bakery owner.

A bakery owner who was currently staring at him with amusement sparkling in her eyes.

"Eric."

His heart nearly stopped.

"What?"

"You're thinking too hard again."

You were right.

He always thought too hard around you.

Because every time he came in, he promised himself he'd ask you out.

And every time he saw you smile, his brain stopped functioning.

"Eric."

"What?"

"Why are you here?"

He rubbed the back of his neck and looked at you deeply, "...Wanted to see you."

The second the words left his mouth, he looked horrified.

"Oh my God."

You laughed so hard you nearly dropped a tray. His face turned red.

"Forget I said that."

"No chance."

"Seriously."

"Absolutely not."

He covered his face with one hand. You could practically feel the embarrassment radiating off him.

"Eric..."

"This is awful."

"It's actually kind of adorable."

His eyes snapped to yours, "Don't call me adorable."

"Why not?"

"Because."

"Because?"

His glare had absolutely no effect.

"You're six foot something and built like a tank," you continued. "But every time you talk to me you look like you're about to pass out."

"I am about to pass out."

You laughed again. And to Eric's horror, he realized he loved making you laugh. Even when he was the joke.

A few days later Eric arrived after work.

You already had his usual order waiting.

A loaf of bread he didn't need.

And a pink cupcake.

He stared at it.

"You remembered."

"Of course."

A tiny smile appeared.

Small.

Shy.

The kind of smile most people never got to see from him. You almost forgot how to breathe. Then you slid a small paper bag across the counter.

"On the house."

Eric blinked.

"You don't have to do that."

"I know."

He opened the bag. Inside was a heart-shaped cookie. His entire face went red.

Again.

You thought he might actually combust.

"What's this for?"

You shrugged innocently.

"Just thought you'd like it."

Eric stared at the cookie. His expression softened, and for a moment he looked younger. Less guarded.

Less like someone who'd spent years learning to hide every vulnerable part of himself.

"Can I ask you something?" he said quietly.

"Sure."

He shifted nervously. The tough-guy act completely gone.

"Would you maybe..."

His voice caught. You waited.

Eric took a breath, "Would you maybe want dinner sometime?"

You smiled, "Eric."

He looked terrified.

"Yeah?"

"You know you could've asked me that about twenty loaves of bread ago."

For a second he just stared, then a genuine grin spread across his face. And somehow that smile was far more dangerous than any glare he'd ever worn.

"Yeah?" he asked softly.

You nodded.

"Yeah."

The bakery bell jingled as another customer entered.

Neither of you moved.

And for once, Eric Love didn't seem to be in any hurry to leave.

Your first day in camp had been met with stares, whispers, and enough skepticism to choke on. Men paused conversations when you walked by. Some looked amused. Others looked insulted.

Then Paddy Mayne had appeared.

Tall. Broad. Dangerous-looking even while half-drunk. The sort of man who looked born for war and bar fights alike.

He’d walked straight toward you while the others watched.

“You the new lieutenant?”

“Yes.”

“You any good?”

You’d tilted your head. “Better than you.”

The entire tent had gone silent.

And Paddy—

Paddy had grinned like he’d just discovered religion.

From that moment on, things simply clicked.

The same temper.

The same recklessness.

The same complete inability to follow orders if they sounded stupid.

Within months, the two of you became infamous across the camp.

If there was a fight in Cairo, odds were one of you started it.

If there was a mission considered impossible, both of you volunteered before hearing details.

If explosions were involved?

God help everyone.

The soldiers started calling you “the twin storms.”

Paddy pretended to hate the nickname.

You knew he secretly loved it.

Tonight, Cairo buzzed outside the open windows while jazz music drifted through the officers’ club. The room smelled of cigarettes, sweat, and liquor.

You sat backward in a chair, sleeves rolled to your elbows, watching Paddy lose spectacularly at cards.

“You’re cheating,” he accused.

“You say that every time you lose.”

“Because you cheat every time I lose.”

Across the table, one lieutenant leaned toward another and whispered, “Think they know they’re in love?”

Paddy looked up instantly. “Careful, lad.”

The poor man nearly swallowed his drink whole.

You burst into laughter while Paddy leaned back in his chair, completely unbothered.

That was another thing everyone noticed.

Paddy Mayne tolerated almost nobody.

But you?

You could insult him, steal his cigarettes, threaten him with bodily harm, and he’d only grin wider.

And you trusted him in ways that terrified you.

In war, trust was more dangerous than bullets.

“You know,” Paddy said suddenly, studying you over the rim of his glass, “when I first met you, I thought you’d last maybe a week.”

You raised a brow. “Only a week?”

“You looked too clean.”

You barked a laugh.

Then his expression softened slightly—something rare enough that conversations nearby quieted.

“But you fit.”

The words landed heavier than expected.

Because he was right.

For the first time since the war began, you fit somewhere.

Not because they accepted you.

Not because they respected your rank.

But because Paddy looked at you and saw someone exactly like himself.

Wild.

Unmanageable.

And utterly unstoppable.

The first person to notice was Sergeant Riley.

Mostly because he’d spent years watching Paddy Mayne threaten people with violence as a form of affection.

So when Paddy handed you his last cigarette without complaint, Riley nearly choked.

He stared openly.

Paddy noticed immediately. “You got a problem?”

Riley blinked. “You just gave her your cigarette.”

“And?”

“You threatened to kill Fraser yesterday for asking for one.”

Fraser pointed from across camp. “He did! Swore on God and Ireland both.”

Paddy looked irritated now that everyone was staring.

You, meanwhile, took a slow drag from the cigarette completely unaware of the crisis unfolding around you.

“She asked first,” Paddy muttered, like that explained everything.

It did not.

That became the problem.

The little things.

Everyone noticed them except the two people involved.

Like how Paddy always unconsciously walked on the side closest to the road whenever you were in Cairo.

How you automatically checked his knuckles for cuts after fights.

How he slept easier if he knew you’d made it back from an operation.

How you stopped carrying matches because Paddy always lit your cigarettes before you could ask.

Neither of you mentioned it.

Not once.

Because war made people foolish in strange ways.

It convinced soldiers they were temporary things.

And temporary people didn’t dare name permanent feelings.

Still, the camp saw it all.

Especially during missions.

One night, your team returned from a brutal raid beyond enemy lines. Exhausted men stumbled back into camp covered in dirt and smoke while medics rushed toward the wounded.

The second Paddy climbed out of the truck, his eyes searched for only one person.

You.

The moment he spotted you sitting against a crate with blood running down your temple, something terrifying crossed his face.

Fear.

Real fear.

He crossed the distance instantly.

“Who did this?”

You blinked up at him. “Hello to you too.”

“Who hit you?”

“It’s not mine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“So are you.”

Only then did you grab his wrist and pull his hand down hard enough to stop his pacing.

The entire camp watched in silence.

Because Paddy Mayne—violent, unpredictable Paddy Mayne—actually calmed down when you touched him.

It was unnatural.

“You’re shaking,” you murmured quietly.

His jaw tightened.

You softened your grip slightly. “I’m alright.”

For a second, the war disappeared from his face.

Just for a second.

Then someone nearby cleared their throat loudly and reality snapped back into place.

Paddy stepped away first.

You looked equally confused by the sudden tension in the air.

“What?” you asked the others.

Riley rubbed a hand over his face. “Christ alive, you really don’t see it.”

“See what?”

“No one answer that,” another soldier warned immediately.

Because if either of you realized what was happening, the entire balance of the universe might collapse.

Weeks passed.

The war worsened.

Operations grew bloodier.

And somehow the two of you only became more inseparable.

The moments between missions turned precious without either of you admitting why.

Like tonight.

The camp slept quietly around you while Cairo glittered in the distance beyond the dunes. Somewhere far away, music drifted through the desert air.

You sat on the hood of a jeep cleaning your pistol while Paddy leaned against the front tire beside you.

Neither speaking.

You didn’t need to.

“You ever think about after?” you asked eventually.

Paddy glanced up. “After what?”

“The war.”

He snorted softly. “Bold of you to assume we survive it.”

You kicked his shoulder lightly with your boot.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

The honesty in his voice hurt more than expected.

Silence settled again.

Then Paddy spoke quieter this time.

“If there is an after…” He looked out toward Cairo’s distant lights. “I think I’d go mad if you weren’t in it.”

Your hands stilled.

Not because the words were shocking.

Because they weren’t.

Some part of you had known for months.

The terrifying thing was how natural it felt.

You looked down at him carefully. “That almost sounded romantic.”

“Don’t insult me.”

You laughed softly.

And there it was again—that look he only ever wore around you. Softer around the edges. Like the war loosened its grip on him for a few stolen seconds.

Then, without thinking, you reached down and brushed dried blood from his cheek with your thumb.

Paddy went completely still.

Around the corner of the jeep, three soldiers instantly backed away after accidentally witnessing the moment.

“Don’t make noise,” Johnny whispered urgently.

“I think they’re about to realize it.”

The entire camp had been waiting months for this.

But you and Paddy remained trapped in that tiny moment beneath the desert stars, looking at each other like the rest of the world had disappeared.

His hand slowly closed around your wrist.

Careful.

Gentle.

So unlike him.

Or maybe not unlike him at all.

Maybe this was simply the version of Paddy Mayne the rest of the world never got to see.

The desert night had gone strangely quiet.

Not truly silent—there were still distant engines somewhere beyond camp, muffled laughter from the barracks, music drifting faintly from Cairo—but everything around the two of you felt suspended. Like the world had paused just long enough to let this happen.

Paddy still held your wrist loosely in his hand.

You could feel the warmth of his fingers even through the grime and exhaustion of the day.

Neither of you moved away.

For once, neither of you had a clever remark ready.

That alone should have been alarming.

His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth before lifting again, almost like he was checking whether this was real. Whether you’d disappear if he blinked.

“You’re staring,” you murmured.

“You’re difficult not to look at.”

The answer came too quickly.

Too honestly.

And somehow that affected you more than all the reckless flirting and sharp comments exchanged over the past months.

Paddy Mayne was many things.

Careful with words was not one of them.

You smiled faintly. “That sounded dangerously sincere.”

“Tragic, isn’t it?”

But his voice had softened.

The air between you tightened.

Then your hand slid from his wrist to the side of his neck almost without thinking, fingers brushing warm skin beneath the collar of his uniform.

Paddy inhaled sharply.

And that—

That was new.

This man walked through gunfire like he was immortal, yet one touch from you seemed enough to unravel him entirely.

Your thumb brushed along the edge of his jaw.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like you were learning him by touch.

His gaze darkened slightly.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he said quietly, “and I’ll do something irresponsible.”

You huffed a laugh. “Paddy, your entire existence is irresponsible.”

“Fair point.”

Then neither of you spoke again.

Because suddenly there was no room for words anymore.

You leaned down first.

Just slightly.

Enough for him to meet you halfway.

The kiss started careful—hesitant in a way neither of you had ever been about anything else. Like both of you understood instinctively how dangerous this was.

Not because of regulations.

Not because of war.

Because once this happened, there would be no pretending anymore.

Paddy’s hand slid to your waist slowly, almost reverently, and the moment his mouth fully met yours something in him seemed to give way entirely.

Warm.

Certain.

Real.

You kissed him deeper and felt the quiet sound that escaped his throat before he pulled you closer without thinking.

It wasn’t rushed.

Wasn’t desperate.

It felt devastatingly natural.

Like something that had been trying to happen since the day you first challenged him in that crowded tent months ago.

When you finally pulled apart, neither of you moved far.

Your forehead rested briefly against his.

Paddy looked at you for a long moment, breathing unevenly, eyes half-lidded with something softer than you’d ever seen from him before.

Then—

To your complete surprise—

He smiled.

Not the cocky grin.

Not the dangerous smirk he gave before fights.

A real one.

Small. Quiet. Satisfied.

Like a man who had spent months searching for something only to realize it had been beside him the entire time.

His thumb brushed absentmindedly against your hip.

“So,” you whispered, unable to stop smiling yourself, “that’s what all the fuss was about.”

Paddy let out a low laugh under his breath and looked almost offended by the understatement.

“Christ,” he murmured, eyes still fixed on yours. “This is what it feels like.”

The words hit harder than the kiss had.

Because there was genuine wonder in his voice.

As though Paddy Mayne—fearless, brutal, untouchable Paddy Mayne—had finally discovered something capable of bringing him to his knees.

And heaven help him—

It was you.

Behind a nearby truck, Johnny silently handed another soldier money.

“Told you they were in love,” he whispered smugly.

“Shut up and pay me.”

After the kiss, the camp lasted exactly twelve hours before everyone knew.

Not because anyone caught you again.

Because Paddy Mayne walked into breakfast carrying your mug alongside his own without realizing what he was doing.

The entire mess hall fell silent.

Riley nearly collapsed from laughing.

Paddy stopped mid-step, looked down at the mug in his hand, then slowly looked up at the dozens of staring soldiers.

“…not a word,” he warned.

Of course that made it worse.

By evening, the entire camp—and likely half of Cairo—knew.

Oddly enough, neither of you cared.

There was no dramatic announcement.

No discussion about what you were to each other.

You simply…started existing together openly.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You slept in his tent more often than not now, though “sleep” was generous considering Paddy still woke at the slightest sound and you still stole the blankets like a criminal.

You shared cigarettes.

Shared coffee.

Shared bruises after missions.

And somewhere along the way, you started sharing the quieter things too.

The pieces nobody else got from Paddy.

The rest of the camp noticed the difference almost immediately.

Paddy was still Paddy.

Still reckless.

Still terrifying in a fight.

Still fully capable of flattening a man for looking at him wrong.

But now there was something anchoring him.

You.

It showed in small moments.

Like how he stopped charging headfirst into danger without thinking because now someone waited for him to come back.

How his temper cooled faster whenever you touched his arm or said his name a certain way.

How he actually slept through the night if you were beside him.

That last one disturbed everyone most.

“You’ve domesticated him,” Stirling accused while watching Paddy quietly clean your knife beside you one evening.

You looked up from your paperwork. “I beg your pardon?”

“He hasn’t punched anyone in almost a week.”

From nearby, Paddy muttered, “I punched Thompson yesterday.”

“Yes, but he deserved it,” Stirling argued. “That doesn’t count.”

Paddy handed your knife back handle-first before leaning against your shoulder casually.

The camp watched this with the same horror one might reserve for witnessing a wolf become affectionate.

Because Paddy touched no one.

Except you.

Always you.

And you treated him differently too.

Softer.

You checked his injuries without asking.

Fixed his collar absentmindedly before briefings.

Dragged him away from fights before they escalated into murder.

Nobody else could have done that.

The terrifying part?

Paddy actually listened to you.

One night after a particularly brutal mission, tempers ran high across camp. A young officer made the mistake of criticizing Paddy’s decisions a little too loudly.

The atmosphere turned deadly instantly.

Everyone saw it happen—that dangerous stillness settling over Paddy before violence.

The officer paled.

Because everyone knew what came next.

Except this time, your hand slipped into Paddy’s before he could move.

Just that.

Fingers threading together loosely.

Paddy looked down at your joined hands.

Then up at you.

And whatever storm had been building inside him simply…settled.

“You’re glaring again,” you said mildly.

“He’s annoying.”

“He’s also nineteen.”

“That sounds like his problem.”

You squeezed his hand once.

The entire tent watched Paddy exhale slowly through his nose before muttering, “Fine.”

Fine.

The officer looked moments away from fainting.

Later that night, Riley sat beside you near the fire while Paddy argued with someone across camp.

“Well,” Riley said thoughtfully, “you’ve achieved what no military training, commanding officer, or act of God could.”

You raised a brow. “What’s that?”

“You made Paddy Mayne emotionally stable.”

From across camp, Paddy shouted, “I heard that, you bastard!”

Riley grinned into his drink.

But he wasn’t wrong.

You grounded Paddy in a way war never could.

And Paddy loved you with a kind of frightening certainty.

Not loudly.

Not poetically.

But completely.

It lived in the way he always reached for you first after missions.

The way he unconsciously relaxed the second you entered a room.

The way his eyes searched for you in every crowd like instinct.

And you loved him just as fiercely.

Even knowing war had a habit of taking good things away.

Especially from people like you two.

Maybe that was why neither of you wasted time pretending otherwise anymore.

One evening in Cairo, you sat together on a rooftop overlooking the glowing city while music drifted up from the streets below.

Your head rested against Paddy’s shoulder while he smoked quietly beside you.

“You know,” you murmured, “the camp’s terrified of you.”

“They should be.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You laughed softly and tilted your head to look at him.

“But not with me.”

Paddy glanced down at you, expression gentler than the moonlight deserved.

“No,” he admitted quietly. “Not with you.”

Then he leaned down and kissed you slow and unhurried beneath the Cairo night, like he had all the time in the world.

And for a few stolen moments—It almost felt true.

The next morning began disastrously.

Which, in fairness, was becoming a theme whenever you and Paddy were involved.

You woke tangled in blankets and warm skin, sunlight bleeding through the canvas tent in thin golden lines. For one blissfully peaceful second, you forgot where you were.

Then the voices outside reached your ears.

Loud voices.

Laughing voices.

Your eyes narrowed immediately.

Beside you, Paddy looked entirely too relaxed for a man whose unit was clearly planning his public execution through humiliation.

“You hear that?” you muttered.

“Mhm.”

“You seem suspiciously calm.”

“That’s because I know exactly why they’re laughing.”

You froze.

Slowly.

Very slowly.

Memory returned all at once.

The creaking cot.

Paddy’s hands gripping your waist.

The fact that at one point you had buried your face in his shoulder trying—and failing—not to laugh while he absolutely refused to be quiet.

“Oh no.”

Paddy actually had the audacity to grin against your neck.

“You should hear yourself when you’re trying to stay quiet.”

You shoved him immediately while he laughed outright now, completely unashamed.

Outside, someone shouted, “You two decent in there or should we come back after the honeymoon?”

You nearly died on the spot.

Paddy, traitor that he was, looked delighted.

You dropped your face into your hands.

“This is a nightmare.”

“This,” Paddy informed you smugly, “is victory.”

“You are unbearable.”

“And yet.”

That stupid grin widened.

An hour later, you stepped out of the tent trying to salvage what little dignity remained.

Your uniform was immaculate.

Far too immaculate.

Collar pulled high despite the Cairo heat.

Sleeves buttoned.

Avoiding eye contact with everyone.

The bruises scattered along your neck and collarbone burned beneath the fabric like criminal evidence.

You were fully prepared to survive the morning through sheer denial.

Unfortunately, the camp had eyes.

Too many eyes.

The second you appeared, conversations stopped.

A few soldiers coughed suspiciously into their coffee.

Riley took one look at your expression and lost all composure entirely.

“Oh, she knows.”

You pointed a warning finger immediately. “Not. One. Word.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he lied horribly.

Another soldier squinted at your neck. “That’s a lot of collar for Cairo weather, Lieutenant.”

“Heatstroke builds character.”

“No, but hickeys certainly—”

You grabbed the nearest tin cup and launched it with terrifying accuracy.

And then—

And chaos erupted.

Because Paddy Mayne stepped out shirtless.

Completely shirtless.

The camp lost its collective mind instantly.

Cheers exploded from every direction.

Someone actually started clapping.

Another soldier shouted, “GOOD LORD, LOOK AT HIS CHEST.”

You whipped around so fast you nearly injured yourself.

And there stood Paddy, entirely unconcerned, lighting a cigarette like this was a perfectly normal morning.

Except now everyone could see the evidence scattered all over him.

Red marks along his chest.

Scratches down one shoulder.

Bite marks near his collarbone.

Your bite marks.

The realization hit you like artillery fire.

“Oh my God.”

Paddy glanced down lazily at himself like he’d forgotten they were there.

Then—because he was the proudest man alive—he smirked.

The camp practically gave him a standing ovation.

Riley was crying from laughter now. “HE LOOKS SO PLEASED WITH HIMSELF.”

“I am pleased with myself,” Paddy answered immediately.

“You animal,” another soldier yelled.

Paddy took a drag from his cigarette and leaned casually against the tent post, looking every bit like a man who had just personally won the war.

Meanwhile you considered faking your own death.

“Robert Blair Mayne,” you hissed violently, “put a shirt on.”

“No.”

“WHY NOT?”

He looked genuinely confused. “Why would I hide your good work?”

The camp erupted again.

You covered your face entirely while several soldiers nearly collapsed onto the sand.

One man wheezed, “He’s never recovering from this.”

“No,” Riley corrected through tears, “we’re never recovering from this.”

Paddy, meanwhile, walked over completely shameless and slipped an arm around your waist.

You refused to look at him.

“That bad?” he murmured against your temple, clearly entertained.

“You are insufferable.”

“And you left teeth marks on me.”

You made a sound somewhere between outrage and despair.

The bastard looked delighted.

Then his hand slid gently against your side beneath the teasing, grounding you instantly.

That softness again.

Always hidden underneath the arrogance and laughter.

Paddy glanced down at you with that same quiet look he wore when no one else was paying attention.

Warm.

Certain.

Completely gone for you.

The camp noticed that part too.

Because despite all the jokes and cheering, the way Paddy held you remained oddly careful. Protective without even realizing it.

Like loving you had settled something restless inside him.

Riley watched the two of you for a long moment before muttering, “He used to wake up looking ready to fight God.”

Nearby, Johnny nodded toward Paddy, who currently looked smug enough to ascend directly into heaven.

“And now?”

Riley snorted. “Now he wakes up looking loved.”

The camp was still in absolute shambles.

Half the men were laughing too hard to function, the other half looked emotionally scarred, and somewhere near the trucks someone had started taking bets on how long it would take before you finally strangled Paddy.

Current odds were apparently before lunch.

You stood rigid in the middle of camp while Paddy remained beside you shirtless and entirely unrepentant.

Worse—he looked comfortable.

Relaxed in a way that should’ve been illegal for a man covered in very obvious evidence of last night.

“You couldn’t even pretend to be embarrassed?” you muttered under your breath.

Paddy glanced down at you innocently. “Why would I be embarrassed?”

“Because the entire camp can see—”

He looked down at the marks across his chest again.

Then he had the nerve to grin.

“Ah,” he said proudly. “Those.”

The nearby soldiers burst into laughter again.

You looked moments away from committing murder.

Riley wiped tears from his eyes. “Lieutenant, respectfully, you mauled that man.”

Paddy immediately pointed toward Riley with his cigarette. “And I’d let her do it again.”

The cheering somehow got louder.

You stared at Paddy in genuine disbelief. “You are impossible.”

“You seemed to manage me quite well last night.”

Several men collapsed onto crates wheezing.

“PADDY,” you snapped.

“What?” he asked, entirely too smug. “I’m complimenting you.”

“You are never speaking again.”

“No promises.”

He leaned closer then, lowering his voice enough that only you could hear.

“You’re very pretty when you’re embarrassed, by the way.”

Your expression faltered instantly.

Damn him.

That was another unfair thing about Paddy Mayne—he could switch from insufferable menace to devastatingly sincere in a heartbeat.

And the sincerity always hit harder.

His fingers brushed lightly against your wrist.

Tiny touch.

Barely there.

But grounding.

“You alright?” he asked quietly.

The question softened you despite yourself.

Because beneath all the teasing, Paddy was watching you carefully now. Checking whether the attention had become too much.

You exhaled slowly. “I hate you a little.”

“No, you don’t.”

Unfortunately true.

Around you, the camp still buzzed with amusement.

One younger soldier looked at Paddy cautiously. “Sir…with respect…”

Paddy raised a brow.

“How are you still standing?”

The entire camp roared.

Paddy barked out a laugh before slinging an arm around your shoulders.

“Built different.”

“You’re disgusting,” you informed him.

“And yet,” he said smugly, “you’re staring at my chest.”

“Because my crimes are on display!”

“Beautifully displayed.”

You made a helpless noise while Riley nearly threw himself onto the ground laughing.

“Sweet Christ,” he gasped, “he’s in love.”

Paddy looked genuinely offended. “You say that like it’s surprising.”

That shut everyone up for exactly two seconds.

Then the camp collectively lost their minds again.

Because Paddy Mayne admitting love openly felt roughly equivalent to witnessing a natural disaster become self-aware.

You blinked up at him.

Paddy met your gaze steadily despite the chaos around you.

No teasing this time.

No smug grin.

Just certainty.

Simple as breathing.

“Course I love you,” he said like it was obvious. “Look at you.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

Maybe because he said them so easily.

Like loving you wasn’t frightening.

Wasn’t complicated.

Wasn’t something to hide.

His thumb brushed absently against your shoulder while the camp erupted around you once more.

One soldier shouted, “I can’t believe we’re witnessing emotional growth.”

Another pointed dramatically at Paddy. “Put a shirt on before morale gets too high.”

Paddy ignored all of them.

Still looking only at you.

And suddenly the embarrassment faded a little beneath the warmth spreading through your chest.

“You’re staring again,” you murmured softly.

“Can you blame me?”

You tried not to smile.

Failed immediately.

Paddy’s expression changed the second he saw it—that same quiet wonder appearing again like he still couldn’t quite believe he got to have this.

Got to have you.

Riley watched the two of you carefully before groaning loudly toward the heavens.

“There they go again.”

“What?”

“That look,” he accused. “You two keep looking at each other like you survived the end of the world.”

Paddy didn’t even glance away from you.

“Maybe we did.”

Men continued yelling commentary across camp like spectators at a sporting event.

“Lieutenant, blink twice if you’re being held hostage by romance!”

“You’ve ruined her, Mayne!”

“He smiles now! Explain yourself!”

Paddy ignored every word of it.

Mostly because he was too busy staring at you again.

You noticed eventually and narrowed your eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Thinking.”

“That’s always dangerous.”

“Very.”

His voice had gone lower somehow.

Around you, the camp slowly began noticing the shift in his expression too.

Riley stopped mid-laugh. “Oh no.”

Another soldier followed his gaze toward Paddy. “What?”

“That look,” Riley said immediately. “That’s the exact look he gets before fights.”

You blinked. “What does that mean?”

Paddy answered before Riley could.

“It means I’ve decided something.”

You should have been more concerned by how calm he sounded.

Instead, you crossed your arms. “And what exactly have you decided?”

Paddy stepped closer.

Far too close for a man already causing nationwide military distress.

“That I haven’t kissed you properly today.”

The entire camp erupted instantly.

“Oh FOR GOD’S SAKE—”

“NOT IN FRONT OF BREAKFAST.”

“STIRLING, I OWE YOU TEN POUNDS, HE’S DOING THE LOOK.”

Your face burned while Paddy looked entirely unaffected by the chaos.

“You’re insane,” you informed him.

“Probably.”

Then his gaze dropped briefly to your mouth.

And that tiny movement alone nearly sent the surrounding soldiers into cardiac arrest.

“Paddy,” you warned quietly.

Too late.

The man had apparently lost the last functioning piece of restraint he possessed.

Without another word, he grabbed your hand and tugged you toward the nearby supply tent.

Fast.

Purposeful.

Like a man on a mission.

The camp LOST ITS MIND.

“Oh he’s gone.”

“THEY’RE GOING BACK IN.”

“IT’S NINE IN THE MORNING.”

Reg cupped his hands around his mouth. “PADDY, FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST, WE ALL LIVE HERE.”

Paddy didn’t even look back.

Only threw a lazy middle finger over his shoulder while dragging you away.

You were laughing now despite yourself, trying unsuccessfully to slow him down.

“Paddy!”

“What?”

“You cannot just kidnap me in broad daylight.”

“Watch me.”

“That is not a valid argument!”

He finally pulled you around the side of the tent where the noise of camp became slightly muffled.

The second you were out of sight, Paddy’s hands landed on your waist and he looked at you like he’d been thinking about this for hours.

Which, honestly, he probably had.

“You are impossible,” you said breathlessly.

“And yet here you are.”

You barely had time to roll your eyes before he kissed you again.

Harder this time.

Not careful like the first kiss beneath the Cairo stars.

Not hesitant.

This one carried all the unbearable affection and wanting he’d been shamelessly displaying all morning.

His hand slid against your back, pulling you closer while your fingers curled into his shoulders automatically.

From somewhere outside the tent came immediate screaming.

“I KNEW IT.”

“THEY’RE DOING IT AGAIN.”

“WE CAN HEAR YOU KISSING, YOU MENACES.”

You broke apart laughing against Paddy’s mouth while he rested his forehead against yours, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter himself.

“They’re animals,” you whispered.

“We trained them poorly.”

“You are one of them.”

“Debatable.”

Then he kissed you again because apparently he truly could not help himself anymore.

Outside, the soldiers sounded moments away from rioting.

Riley’s voice carried over the noise: “I’m requesting separate tents for my own psychological wellbeing!”

Paddy didn’t care.

Didn’t care that the camp was losing control.

Didn’t care that half the regiment was currently scandalized.

The only thing he seemed capable of focusing on was you.

The way you smiled into the kiss.

The way your hands slid into his hair.

The fact that every time he touched you, the world became quieter somehow.

When he finally pulled back, he looked devastatingly pleased with himself again.

“You know,” he murmured softly, thumb brushing your cheek, “I was having a perfectly good morning already.”

You laughed weakly. “And now?”

“Now,” Paddy said, looking at you like he’d discovered something holy in the middle of war, “it’s excellent.”

Outside the tent someone shouted dramatically, “I hope you’re both ashamed.”

Paddy raised his voice without looking away from you.

“Not even slightly.”

MASTERLIST

The entire group went quiet. Several grins appeared immediately. Stirling glanced between the two of you.

Before he could answer, Paddy spoke up, "Of course she can."

His voice was casual, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Sure, where else would she be?"

The men immediately started laughing. You closed your eyes. Here we go.

Paddy's grin widened, "Stick with Uncle Paddy, sweetheart."

The camp erupted. Whistles. Howls. Several men nearly doubled over laughing. You felt heat rush into your cheeks.

Then Paddy leaned slightly closer and lowered his voice so only you could hear, "Can't have you running off with David now, can I?"

Your blush only worsened. Unfortunately, everyone noticed.

"Oh, look at that!"

"She's gone red!"

"Uncle Paddy's favourite!"

"For God's sake," Stirling muttered.

Paddy looked entirely too pleased with himself.

Hours later, the convoy rolled out into the desert.

You climbed into the lead truck and immediately found Paddy already in the driver's seat.

"Move over."

You frowned.

"I'm getting in the passenger seat."

"That's what I meant."

The corner of his mouth twitched.

"You think I'd trust Cooper with navigation?"

From behind, Johnny Cooper laughed.

"Always good to know where I stand."

"Exactly where you belong," Paddy replied.

Reg Seekings barked out a laugh as he climbed into the back.

The truck lurched forward.

For a while there was only the rumble of the engine and the endless stretch of desert beneath the moonlight.

Paddy drove one-handed, looking completely at ease.

Which was remarkable considering all of you were heading toward an enemy airfield.

You sometimes suspected the man viewed danger as a hobby.

"You nervous?" he asked.

You looked at him.

"No."

"Good."

"Why?"

A grin appeared.

"Because if you're nervous, then I might have to start worrying."

Johnny made a dramatic gagging sound from the back.

Reg joined him.

"Oh, here we go."

Paddy didn't even turn around.

"Johnny."

The warning was calm.

Very calm.

Johnny immediately stopped.

You couldn't help laughing.

Paddy glanced sideways at you.

The sight seemed to satisfy him.

"That's better."

The convoy continued through the darkness.

As the target drew closer, the joking slowly faded.

Everyone could feel the mission ahead.

Paddy checked the compass before looking toward you again.

"When we reach the airfield, stay with me."

You raised an eyebrow.

"I can take care of myself."

"I know."

There wasn't a trace of doubt in his voice.

"I've seen you do it often enough."

His expression softened slightly.

"But stay where I can see you all the same."

Something about the way he said it made your chest tighten.

Not an order.

Just concern.

You nodded.

"All right."

"Good."

A small smile touched his mouth.

The convoy continued across the desert beneath the stars.

And though nobody said it aloud, you found yourself strangely comforted by the steady presence of the man beside you as the raid drew ever closer.

The trouble began when everyone realized Paddy wasn't going to stop.

At first, the men assumed his teasing would wear off.

It didn't.

If anything, it got worse.

Days passed. Raids came and went. Aircraft burned on distant airfields. Trucks rolled across endless miles of desert.

And through it all, Paddy seemed determined to make his interest in you everyone's business.

Not in a crude way.

Just in a very Paddy way.

The sort of way that left you wanting to disappear into the sand whenever half the camp started laughing.

It started with little things.

Saving you a seat during briefings.

Handing you a mug of tea before you'd even asked for one.

Making room for you beside him whenever the patrol gathered around a map.

"You spoil her," Johnny Cooper complained one afternoon.

Paddy barely looked up from cleaning his weapon.

"Aye."

That was it.

Just aye.

As if there were absolutely nothing strange about the answer.

Johnny stared.

"You aren't even denying it."

"Didn't know I was supposed to."

The camp erupted with laughter.

You buried your face in your hands. Paddy looked entirely unrepentant.

Unfortunately, his behavior had another effect.

It ensured every man in the unit knew exactly where they stood.

Not because Paddy threatened anyone. He didn't have to.

One evening, after a successful raid, a new replacement wandered into camp.

Young.

Confident.

Completely unaware of the situation.

You were sitting outside a truck cleaning sand from your boots when he approached.

"Mind if I sit here?"

You looked up, "Not at all."

He dropped down beside you.

Across the camp, Paddy happened to glance over. The replacement never noticed.

"You've got quite a reputation around here," the young soldier said.

"Oh?"

"The first woman in the regiment."

You laughed.

"That tends to happen when you're the only one."

The conversation was harmless.

Perfectly innocent.

Unfortunately, Johnny Cooper had also spotted it.

Johnny immediately abandoned whatever he was doing and hurried toward Paddy.

"Oh, this should be good."

Paddy didn't even look up.

"What should?"

"Three o'clock."

Paddy followed Johnny's gaze.

The replacement was smiling at you.

You were smiling back.

Again, entirely innocent.

Paddy stared for several seconds. Then calmly stood.

"Oh no," Reg Seekings muttered.

"He's moving."

The nearby men immediately started watching. Paddy crossed the camp at an unhurried pace.

You noticed him approaching. The replacement didn't.

Which was unfortunate, because Paddy stopped directly behind your seat.

The young soldier finally looked up.

"Evening," Paddy said pleasantly.

The replacement swallowed.

"Evening, sir."

Paddy rested one hand on the truck beside you.

"You settling in all right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good."

Silence.

The replacement seemed to realize he was somehow failing a test.

He just didn't know which one.

Paddy nodded toward the far side of camp.

"I believe Cooper was looking for volunteers."

The replacement was gone before Paddy finished the sentence.

You watched him practically sprint away.

The entire camp burst out laughing.

"Paddy!"

You turned toward him.

"What was that?"

"What was what?"

"You scared him half to death."

"I did no such thing."

"You absolutely did."

Paddy looked genuinely offended.

"I only asked how he was settling in."

From nearby, Reg nearly choked laughing.

Johnny leaned against a truck.

"Sure. And I only ask questions when I'm not being nosy."

Paddy ignored him.

You shook your head.

"You're impossible."

A grin slowly appeared.

"Aye."

For a moment, the noise of the camp faded.

It was just the two of you.

The desert evening.

The warm breeze.

And that look in his eyes.

A look that had become increasingly familiar over the past weeks.

Steady.

Certain.

Unapologetic.

Paddy Mayne was many things. Subtle was not one of them. By now everyone in camp knew exactly how he felt, including you.

The only question that remained was what you intended to do about it.

A successful raid earned the regiment something almost unheard of.

Time off.

Not much.

Just a few precious days without a target to hit or a convoy to ambush.

The announcement alone was enough to send the camp into celebration.

Men immediately began making plans. Some wanted a proper meal. Others wanted a proper bed. Several simply wanted to find the nearest city and see whether civilization still remembered them.

By the time the briefing was called, the atmosphere around camp was lighter than you'd seen in months. David Stirling stood with a clipboard in hand.

"Before everyone disappears, I'll be noting who's taking leave and who's remaining in camp."

A chorus of groans answered him.

"Try to contain your excitement," Stirling said dryly and began reading names.

"Cooper."

"City."

"Seekings."

"City."

"Fraser."

"City."

One after another, men announced their plans. Most were leaving. Some weren't. Stirling marked each name down.

Eventually he reached yours,"You?"

You shrugged, "I'll stay here."

Stirling nodded and made a note. Then he looked toward Paddy.

"Mayne?"

Without hesitation:

"Staying."

The camp went silent. For exactly one second.

Then all hell broke loose.

The howling was immediate. Men doubled over laughing. Several started whistling loud enough to wake the dead.

Johnny Cooper slapped his knee.

"Oh, that's convenient."

"Remarkable coincidence!"

"Purely accidental, I'm sure!"

You immediately felt your face growing warm. Across the gathering, Paddy looked completely unbothered. In fact, he looked amused. Stirling pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Will you idiots let me finish?"

Nobody listened.

"You mean to tell me," Johnny shouted, "that after months of chasing her around camp, you're suddenly choosing to stay here at exactly the same time she is?"

Paddy folded his arms.

"Aye."

More laughter.

Johnny stared.

"That's your defense?"

"Didn't say it was a defense."

The men roared.

Even Stirling looked as though he was fighting a smile.

You groaned.

"Oh, for God's sake."

Paddy glanced sideways at you.

"What?"

"You aren't helping."

His grin widened.

"Wasn't trying to."

That earned another round of whistles.

One of the troopers called out:

"Should we leave you two alone?"

Another shouted:

"Give them the whole camp!"

Someone else suggested they put up a sign outside Paddy's tent.

You covered your face. The laughter only got worse. For once, Paddy seemed to enjoy being the center of attention.

Usually he tolerated it. Today he encouraged it. Johnny pointed dramatically between the two of you.

"Look at him. Not even pretending anymore."

Paddy shrugged, "Never saw much point."

The camp exploded again. You turned toward him.

"Do you enjoy making my life difficult?"

"Immensely."

His answer came far too quickly.

The grin he received in return from the other men suggested they agreed. Eventually Stirling managed to restore some order. Barely.

"Enough."

The laughter slowly subsided.

"Anyone caught causing trouble on leave answers to me."

That quieted several men immediately.

"Anyone caught causing serious trouble answers to Mayne."

That silenced the rest. Paddy smiled pleasantly. Which somehow made the threat worse.

The briefing finally ended. Men dispersed to prepare for leave. Vehicles were packed. Bags were thrown together. Plans were shouted across camp.

As the crowd began to thin, Johnny passed by you and Paddy.

He looked from one to the other. Then shook his head.

"You know, I've never seen a man make courtship look like a military operation."

Paddy considered this, "Haven't failed yet."

Johnny barked out a laugh and walked away.

You stared at Paddy, "Military operation?"

He looked down at you.

"Well, I am SAS."

Despite yourself, you laughed. The sound seemed to please him more than all the teasing from the camp combined. For a moment, as the others prepared to head into the city, the camp felt strangely quiet.

Soon most of the regiment would be gone.

Just a handful would remain behind.

Including you.

Including Paddy.

And judging by the satisfied look on his face, he considered that a victory all by itself.

The camp felt strangely empty by evening.

Most of the regiment had disappeared into the city hours ago, taking their noise, arguments, and endless appetite for trouble with them.

Only a handful of men remained behind, enough to keep the camp running. Not enough to make it feel crowded. The quiet was almost unsettling.

You'd volunteered to make dinner. Partly because somebody had to.

Partly because the alternatives involved several men whose cooking could reasonably be classified as a weapon.

A large pot simmered over the fire as you stirred it with a wooden spoon.

It wasn't fancy.

Nothing in the desert ever was.

But it smelled far better than the usual rations.

A few of the men lingered nearby, watching with the interest of starving wolves.

One of them lifted the lid.

You smacked his hand away.

"Wait."

"I was checking."

"You were stealing."

"I was checking while stealing."

At least he was honest. Laughter drifted across the camp. You shook your head and returned to stirring.

The sun was beginning to sink when you spotted Paddy approaching.

He'd spent most of the afternoon assigning duties to the men who'd remained behind.

Guard rotations, vehicle maintenance, and equipment inspections. The sort of things that still needed doing even during leave.

His sleeves were rolled up. His shirt was dusty.

And judging by his expression, he'd finally finished dealing with everyone. Paddy slowed when he reached the fire. His eyes moved from the pot to you.

Then back to the pot, "Smells good."

You glanced over your shoulder, "Thank you."

"Aye." He looked around, "Nobody poisoned it yet?"

"Not yet."

"Good."

One of the nearby troopers pointed at him.

"That's because she's been standing guard over it for two hours."

"Wise woman."

You rolled your eyes.

Paddy ignored the laughter and settled onto a nearby crate.

For once, neither of you said much.

The evening felt peaceful.

The fire crackled softly.

The desert air had begun to cool.

Around camp, men worked through the last of their tasks before dinner.

It felt... normal.

A rare thing.

You stirred the pot again.

Paddy watched for a moment.

"You know," he said, "the men are going to expect this every night now."

"They can cook for themselves."

"They absolutely cannot."

You laughed.

"Fair point."

One of the troopers nearby nodded enthusiastically.

"She's right, Paddy."

Paddy raised an eyebrow.

"About what?"

"You can't cook either."

The camp immediately fell silent.

Everyone stared.

The unfortunate soldier seemed to realize his mistake a second too late.

Paddy slowly turned his head.

The man visibly reconsidered every life choice that had led him to this moment.

Then Paddy smiled.

"Oh?"

The soldier swallowed.

"Maybe... maybe you're a very good cook."

"Too late."

The rest of the camp erupted with laughter.

Even you couldn't help it.

The poor man looked ready to flee into the desert.

Paddy shook his head before looking back toward you.

His eyes softened slightly.

"See?"

"What?"

"You're a bad influence."

You pointed the spoon at him.

"I'm not the one threatening people."

"I wasn't threatening him."

"Everyone thought you were."

"That's their fault."

The grin tugging at his mouth ruined any attempt at innocence. Dinner was finally served shortly afterward.

The men gathered around with bowls in hand. The food disappeared at an alarming rate. Some declared it the best meal they'd had in months.

One asked whether you could take over cooking permanently. He was immediately shouted down by everyone assigned kitchen duty.

As darkness settled over the desert, conversation drifted around the fire.

Stories.

Jokes.

Arguments.

The easy companionship of men who had survived too much together. You sat slightly apart from the crowd, enjoying the warmth of the flames. At some point, Paddy appeared beside you carrying two mugs of tea. He handed one over without a word.

You accepted it, "Thank you."

"Aye."

For a while neither of you spoke. The firelight danced across the camp. Laughter echoed through the night. For once there were no missions waiting.

No briefing. No target.

Just an evening beneath the stars. Paddy rested his forearms on his knees and stared into the fire.

"You know," he said after a while, "this is probably the quietest I've ever seen this place."

You smiled. "It won't last."

"No."

His mouth twitched.

"It never does."

A comfortable silence settled between you.

Not awkward.

Not forced.

Just easy.

The kind that seemed to come naturally whenever the two of you found yourselves alone.

Or as alone as two people could be in a camp full of soldiers determined to watch every interaction between them.

Sure enough, a whistle suddenly rang out from across the fire. You closed your eyes. Paddy sighed.

One of the men shouted:

"Leave them alone, lads! They're having a moment!"

The camp exploded with laughter.

You buried your face in your hands. Paddy, meanwhile, looked completely unbothered. In fact, he appeared almost pleased.

Which only made everyone laugh harder.

The laughter eventually died down again, though it never fully disappeared in a place like this. Someone always found a reason to start it up again.

The fire had burned lower now, settling into glowing embers. The desert night stretched wide and quiet around the camp, broken only by the occasional clink of a mug or distant murmur of voices.

You sat with your knees drawn slightly in, watching the fire shift and crackle.

Paddy had gone quiet beside you. That in itself wasn’t unusual.

He wasn’t a man who filled silence unnecessarily. But there was a different weight to it now. After a while, he spoke,

“Why’d you stay back?”

It wasn’t asked like an accusation. More like he genuinely wanted to know. You kept your eyes on the fire.

“I just wanted… a bit of peace.”

Paddy hummed softly, as if considering that.

“City would’ve given ye that.”

“Not really.”

That made him look at you.

You hesitated, then added more honestly than you meant to:

“Everyone else going off, making plans, forgetting for a bit that there’s a war on…” A faint, tired breath left you. “I just didn’t feel like pretending I could do that tonight.”

Silence followed.

The kind that didn’t feel empty, just careful.

You stared at the fire again.

“I suppose I just wanted a moment where I wasn’t… needed by anyone. Or expected to be anything.”

A pause.

Then quieter:

“It gets a bit lonely sometimes.”

You almost regretted saying it immediately.

Not because it wasn’t true.

Because it was.

But because words like that always felt too exposed once they were out in the air. Paddy didn’t respond straight away.

When you finally glanced at him, his expression had shifted—less amused than usual, less teasing. Still calm, but focused in a way that made you suddenly very aware he was actually listening.

“You’re not alone,” he said simply.

You gave a small, almost disbelieving breath.

“That’s not how it feels.”

“Aye,” he said, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “I get that.”

Another pause.

Then, more firmly:

“But it doesn’t make it true.”

You looked at him properly now. Paddy didn’t look away.

“You’ve got the unit,” he added. “You’ve got Stirling. The lads—even if they’re a pack of idiots most of the time.”

A faint flicker of amusement pulled at your mouth despite yourself.

“And,” he continued, tone flattening just slightly like it was the simplest fact in the world, “you’ve got me.”

That landed differently.

You blinked at him.

Paddy met your stare without hesitation, as if he’d just stated something obvious, like the weather.

“I’m not exactly going anywhere,” he added.

From somewhere across the fire, someone let out a low whistle again, quickly cut off by a thrown boot and a curse.

You didn’t look away from Paddy.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant.”

His voice softened a fraction.

“And I’m telling you you’re wrong.”

The fire popped quietly between you.

For once, there was no joking edge to him. No performance for the rest of the camp. Just something steady and direct that made your chest feel unexpectedly tight.

Paddy tilted his head slightly.

“You don’t get to sit here thinking you’re on your own,” he said. “Not when you’re sitting right here.”

A beat passed.

Then, almost as if he couldn’t help himself, the corner of his mouth lifted again.

“So stop that.”

Despite everything, you let out a quiet laugh.

“Stop what?”

“Acting like I’m not a nuisance you’re stuck with.”

That earned a real laugh this time.

“Paddy, you are a nuisance.”

“See?” he said, satisfied. “We’re making progress.”

The ease returned slowly after that, like something settling back into place.

The fire burned lower.

The camp quieted.

And when you looked out over the desert again, it didn’t feel quite as empty as it had before.

Not because the war had gone anywhere.

It hadn’t.

But because, beside you, Paddy stayed where he was—like he meant it.

You sit down on the edge of the bed, pouting up at him.

“Lionnnn…can you help me?

You pathetically kick out one foot, displaying your heel to him.

“Oh, uh, sure,” he stammers.

You’re coming back from a friend’s birthday party, and you’re wearing your favorite white platform heels with the ankle straps. You had a little too much to drink, and wrestling with the tiny buckle around your ankle had proven to be too difficult a task while your head was still spinning.

He kneels down in front of you and gently rests your foot on his knee, his big fingers fumbling with the dainty buckle.

“Thank youu,” you coo at him.

“Yeah, sure,” he mumbles again, his cheeks flushing red.

He frees your foot from the shoe, then picks up your other foot and begins the process again. When he’s removed your heels, you gently bring your hand to his cheek. He glances up at you through his long lashes.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “My sweet boy.”

He gently turns his head and presses a kiss to your palm. You giggle, and his cheeks brighten again at the sound.

“F’course,” he mutters.

It didn’t take long for a delicious idea to work its way into your brain. 

Every time you came home from an evening out, you’d sit on the edge of the bed and ask Lion to take your heels off. It didn’t matter if you were black out drunk or stone cold sober, whether you were wearing classic pumps or elaborate laced-up platforms. He became so accustomed to the routine that he eventually began to follow you straight to the bedroom after stepping through the front door.

He’d kneel down, place your right foot on his knee, take the shoe off, then repeat. And you always thanked him, called him your sweet boy, made him blush. But you’d waited a while, established the routine, before introducing your latest toy.

You stand outside the apartment door while Lion turns the key in the lock. When he holds the door open for you, you cross to the coat closet, shrugging off your white wool trench and revealing the outfit you’d worn to dinner. A soft velvet dress, deep burgundy and short, short enough that you’d caught his eyes lingering on your legs more than once throughout the night. You notice him doing it now, too; his eyes drift from your shoulders, following the curves of your body, down to your dark red platform heels. You grin as you hang your coat up in the closet.

“I had fun tonight,” you start. “Did you?”

“Uh-huh,” he says half-heartedly, still looking you over as he takes off his own jacket.

You dig around in your purse for the toy as he hangs up his coat. When you find it, you slip it into your palm, a wicked smile creeping across your face. He shuts the closet door and turns to you, but before his hands can reach your hips, you cross into the bedroom, your heels click-clacking across the floor. When you reach the bed, you spin to face him and sigh as you sit. You lean back on one hand and gently kick your feet back and forth. He sinks to his knees in front of you.

click.

His head cocks to one side.

“What was that?”

“Hm? I didn’t hear anything,” you lie.

He turns back to your shoes and continues his routine.

“Good boy,” you mumble, gently tracing your thumb down the length of his jaw.

His lashes flutter as he closes his eyes briefly, taking in a deep breath. When he removes both shoes, he turns back to you.

“You want your kiss?” you tease him.

“Mhmm,” he hums, the sound low in his throat.

“C’mere,” you grin.

He sits up and gently places his hands on your knees.

click.

His brows furrow for just a second, but he leans up to meet your lips. His mouth presses against yours, warm and wet and wanting.

click.

When he finally pulls back from you, you smile, breathless.

“Good boy.”

You carried on like that for a while. Giving him a single click each time he knelt in front of you, each time his hands rested on your knees, each time he kissed you. 

Then, you started to push him.

You’re coming home from a night out with some friends. Lion wanted to object to the length of your skirt, but hadn’t mustered the nerve before you were running out the door, afraid of being late. When he opens the apartment door, both of you a little more buzzed than usual, you head directly to your bedroom, with him on your heels like a puppy. You sit on the bed and he immediately kneels in front of you.

…

His brows knit together in confusion.

“What?” you ask him innocently.

“N-no, no, nothin’,” he mutters, turning his attention back to your shoes. 

He lifts your foot onto his knee and tugs at your shoe, gently removing it. When he finishes with both, he brings his hands to rest on your knees.

click.

“Good boy,” you coo. “Thank you for helping me.”

“F’course, baby,” he replies quietly, looking up at you with those big pathetic eyes that drive you wild.

“You want your kiss?” 

He nods silently.

“C’mere.”

He pushes himself up to meet your lips. 

click.

He kisses you slow and sweet, his hands drifting to your waist. You pull back from him, and his hands halt their wandering movement. You bring one hand to the back of his head, holding his forehead to yours.

“Good boy,” you sigh, the air leaving your mouth and entering his as he gulps down quick, erratic breaths.

He hums in pleasure, eyelids fluttering closed.

He once again brings his hands to your hips, softly skimming the fabric of your dress that doesn’t leave much to the imagination. 

“Y’look so pretty in this dress,” he mumbles, his voice low. 

“Awww, thank you kitty cat,” you murmur. Lion flushes at the nickname you only use when you’re especially sweet on him.

“Can we…d’you wanna…” 

“I wanna take a shower,” you yawn.

“O-okay,” he stammers.

You run your hands over his shoulders and down his arms.

“Thank you for takin’ care of me, kitty,” you purr.

“Y’welcome.”

click. 

Lion began to love the clicker. He’d eagerly kneel at your feet, remove your shoes as quickly as he could, and bring his hands to your knees promptly just to hear the sound. You were still pairing each click with a bit of praise; you hadn’t quite weaned him off of rewards yet.

You stand at the mirror in your bathroom, fiddling with your earring. You carefully remove it and set it to the side before starting on the other one. Lion slinks into the bathroom and stands behind you, gently wrapping his arms around your waist. You smile at him in the mirror and grab the clicker from where it’s sitting on the counter in front of you. 

“Y’need help with your shoes?” he asks timidly.

You roughly grind your hips back against his and a tiny noise escapes him.

“Mm, what do you say?” you chide him gently.

“Please?”

click.

“Good boy,” you grin. “Sure, you can help me.”

You turn to face him, your face tantalizingly close to his. He glances from your lips back up to your eyes. His brows are drawn together in a pathetic pleading gaze. You gingerly take his hand in yours, running your thumb over the bruises that paint his knuckles.

“Y’wanna do it here? Or the bedroom?” you ask him sweetly.

“Can we go to the bedroom?” he mumbles. “The tile…”

click.

“Please?”

You smile.

“Of course, sweet boy.”

You drop his hand and brush past him back into the bedroom, Lion following behind you. You take your usual seat on the edge of the bed.

click.

Lion drops to his knees and gets to work. He sets your shoes to the side when he’s done.

click.

He rests his hands on your knees, his palms hot over your skin.

This is usually where you’d ask him if he wants his kiss—dangling a treat out in front of him like a carrot on a stick. Clicking to make him lean up and crash his lips into yours. Lion stares up at you intently. You smile down at him sweetly.

And then you part your legs.

His rough hands are still on your knees, and his eyes dart down between your thighs.

“Shit,” he breathes.

“Yeah? See somethin’ you like, kitty cat?” you tease him. “See somethin’ you want?”

“Yes…” he mutters under his breath.

click.

“Yes, please.”

“Good boy,” you hum.

“Y-you’re…you’re not wearing…” Lion swallows.

“Well what’s the fun in that?” you taunt.

“All night?” he asks weakly.

“Alllll night, baby boy,” you grin. “Coulda been playin’ under the table the whole time. If you were payin’ attention to me.”

You punctuate your last sentence with a pout, exaggerating hurt.

“I was-I was payin’ attention,” he chokes, his eyes still glued to your exposed cunt.

“No you weren’t,” you whine. “Too busy talkin’ to everyone else.”

You had spent the evening at a dinner to celebrate Lion’s recent win. He hated going out to eat after a fight—all he wanted was to go home, cover you in kisses, and sleep—but you found a compromise. He’d let you schedule a nice dinner with a few close friends the day after a win; it did occasionally result in a few cancelled reservations, but generally, it was a good middle ground. 

Lion had spent the night being a little more sociable than usual. He made polite conversation with your best friend’s newest boyfriend whom you weren’t entirely sure you liked yet. He even remembered that your friend Liz had started a new job recently and asked her how she was liking it. You were proud of him for going out of his comfort zone a little more. He was ordinarily pretty shy and reserved at these dinners, uncomfortable being the center of attention. You’d seen a change in him over the last few weeks, and were pleased that he was getting more and more comfortable in his own skin.

But you were so pissed that he had politely taken his hand off your knee when you placed it there instead of fingering you under the table like you wanted.

“Too busy talkin’ to Liz…and Molly…” you guilt him. “Didn’t even notice I wanted these inside’a me.”

You slowly lift one of his hands from your knee and bring two of his fingers to your lips. You greedily take them in your mouth, staring at him as you suck on them. You can feel his fingernails towards the back of your throat, the calloused pads of his fingertips pressing into your tongue. He winces when your teeth graze one of the bruises blooming on his knuckles. You pull him out of your mouth, a string of saliva stretching between you obscenely.

“Still hurts, baby?” you ask softly.

“Mm–mhmm,” he hums, his brows knitted together against the painful sensation.

“Sorry, sweetheart.” 

You run your hand through his hair, using your nails to gently scratch his scalp. He groans under your touch. You draw your hand into a fist, grabbing his hair at the root.

“Gimme my kiss,” you tell him.

He brings his free hand back to your knee and goes to sit up. You tug on his hair, yanking him back down. He cries out in surprise.

“Not your kiss, silly. My kiss.”

You part your knees further and angle your hips up towards him, your skirt riding up around your waist. Lion gets the hint. He leans forward and presses his lips to your folds, placing a delicate kiss over your clit.

click.

A sigh tumbles out from your lips. You release his hair and fall back onto the mattress, propped up on one elbow.

Lion drags his tongue down your folds, the warm, wet feeling of his muscle against your sensitive skin relieving some of the pent-up frustration that’d been building in you since dinner.

“Fuck, just like that baby,” you breathe.

click. 

He speeds up, licking and sucking on your cunt with fervor. 

“A little higher, Lion,” you command him gently, your breath light and airy in your throat.

He obeys, dragging his tongue back up to your clit and massaging the sensitive nerves there.

click.

“Gooood boy,” you moan.

Lion hums against you, the low rumble reverberating through your body and making your thighs shake. He mumbles something you can’t hear.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” you tease.

He pulls away from you, his eyes glazed over with want. He looks delirious.

“Can I make you cum?” he asks, those puppy dog eyes almost melting you on the spot.

click.

“Please?” he corrects.

“Fuck, yes, Lion, make me cum.”

He dives back into you. His tongue feels divine, the pressure against your clit making it harder and harder to catch your breath. 

“Ke-keep going, baby, yes, good boy, righ-ah, right there, right there-!” 

He expertly swirls his tongue over you again, drawing the heat in your stomach down into your pelvis.

“Nng–Lionnnn,” you whine. “M’gonna, fuck, I’m…”

He roughly presses your legs further apart, his rough, bruised hands warm against your inner thighs. He sucks your clit into his mouth as he pulls away from you, releasing your flesh with a lewd wet sound. He slides his hands up, resting one on each side of your soaked core. Using his thumbs, he spreads you, the exposed angle making you blush and squirm under his touch. He gently blows cool air against you, the sensation making you even more sensitive. When he brings his mouth back to you, his tongue burns against your clit. A broken cry jumps out of your throat.

“L-Lion, Lion, please,” you pant. You toss your head back, staring up at the ceiling as he brings one thumb up to your clit, firmly pressing and rubbing in small circles.

The heat in your stomach blooms throughout your body, your cheeks flushing as you fall apart under his tongue and his touch. The sound of your groans and his wet kisses on your cunt fill the room as he works you through your orgasm. You gently push against his head when the stimulation becomes too much. He detaches from you and gazes up at you intently, eager for his reward.

click.

“Good boy,” you laugh lightly. “You want your kiss?”

He nods quietly, his chin coated in his spit and your slick.

“C’mere.”

click.

Once Lion started to understand each click as a reward, you began to train him with only the clicker. You didn’t give him praise or call him sweet names or show him affection until after he made you cum, after he obeyed every command. He knew that every click held the promise of a treat, and followed your orders with reverence.

It’s Friday night and you’re coming home from a date at a little wine bar around the corner from your apartment. You’re wearing your favorite dress, the black one that hugs your body just right, the sweetheart neckline displaying your cleavage perfectly. Your black stilettos clack against the floor of your apartment as you enter and head straight to the bedroom. Lion locks the door behind you and follows quickly behind.

He had been especially needy at the bar, stumbling and stammering over his words stupidly as he stared at your chest. When you stepped out of the dimly lit bar onto the sidewalk, Lion produced a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, shaking one out and holding it between his teeth. He fumbled around in his jacket pockets for his lighter before you opened your purse to let him borrow yours. Seeing the little black clicker in your purse, casually resting next to your lipstick, almost made him faint. Knowing that you carried his sanity around in your tiny designer purse made his knees buckle. He lit the cigarette and took a long drag before grabbing your hand in his and quickly starting towards home.

You sit on the bed now, clicker in hand, as Lion tumbles into the bedroom.

“Kneel.”

click.

He does.

“Take off my shoes.”

click.

He does.

“Get me my vibrator.”

click.

He reaches over to your nightstand and fumbles with the top drawer. He pulls out the small black satin bag and hands it to you. You notice the way his hands are shaking.

“Undress me.”

click.

He brings his hands to your knees and spreads your legs. He reaches under your dress and slides his thumbs underneath the lacy fabric of your black panties, pulling them down your legs and tossing them aside.

You remove your toy from the bag and drag it through your folds, collecting the slick lingering at your entrance. You’re already wet from the anticipation that started building in you when you started the walk home. You love having him wrapped around your finger.

You sigh as you switch the vibe onto the lowest setting, just barely grazing your clit. He watches your every move intently, awaiting his next command.

You tap the button on the toy, increasing the speed. You massage your cunt and the vibrations stimulate your nerves in a way that has your hips twitching into your own touch. Lion just kneels on the floor in front of you as you make him watch you get off on this tiny toy instead of his face.

You cum surprisingly quickly, even on just the medium setting of the vibrator. You can feel your juices coating the silicone and the tips of your fingers as you pull the toy from between your legs, your orgasm making your body feel buzzy and flushed. Lion stares at the shiny remnants of you on the vibe.

“Use your words,” you tell him. It was one of your favorite commands, though it took some getting used to. Where you would ordinarily ask him what was wrong, what he wanted, what he was thinking about, you instead gave him an order.

click.

“Can I have a taste?” he asks meekly.

click.

“Please?” he adds.

“No,” you reply cruelly, relishing every second of it. “Get me a tissue.”

click.

He rises and crosses to the bathroom, returning with the tissue. You take it and wipe your vibrator clean before putting it back in the bag.

“Throw this away,” you tell Lion, handing him the sticky tissue.

You know it’ll kill him, throwing away your cum that he so desperately wanted in his mouth. Not only watching you waste it on a toy, but being forced to be the one to discard the evidence only twisted the knife you’d sunk into his chest.

click.

He reluctantly crosses back into the bathroom and tosses the tissue in the trash can with a wince before returning to you.

“Kneel,” you command him again.

click.

He does.

You stare down at him as he stares up at you, those soft, sweet eyes boring into yours. It takes everything in you to maintain your composure. All you want to do is stroke his hair, pepper his face with tiny kisses, breathe in his breath like it’s your own. But you don’t.

“Gimme my kiss.”

click.

He leans forward and starts eating you like he’s been starved for days. His pace is immediately unrelenting as alternates between swirling his tongue around your clit and dragging it through your folds.

“Lion, oh God, yes,” you huff, your body still reeling from your first orgasm.

His facial hair scratches against your inner thighs as you squeeze them around his head. He hums in satisfaction and tosses your legs over his shoulders, tugging your hips closer to his mouth and the edge of the bed.

You lie back completely, flopping your head against the pillowy mattress. Lion continues to devour you, lapping and slurping up your wetness. It sounds like you’re in a cheesy porno, his weak, tiny moans harmonizing with the vulgar sounds of his tongue.

“Yes, baby, yes, yes, fuck.” You can hardly catch your breath. Your thighs are trembling around his head, your hips twitching and grinding against his face. “Use your words, kitty cat, talk to me.”

click.

He groans.

“Y’so pretty, so gorgeous, baby, couldn’t stop starin’ at you all night,” he mumbles. “Not fair when y’wear this one…”

“You like it?” you tease him through hurried breaths.

“Y’so sexy, fuck, I was gonna cum just starin’ at your tits in the restaurant,” he continues, pressing a sloppy kiss to your clit. “Just wanna make you cum, princess, please, please?”

He runs his tongue along your cunt and swallows the juices that collect on his tongue.

“Please, please, please, baby, please, I need you to…”

He sounds ruined. His breath is filling his lungs almost as fast as yours is, and his voice is wavering.

“I need you to click it baby, please,” he begs.

“Make me cum first, Lion,” you chastise him.

“But ‘m sayin’ please,” he whines.

He was still a little attached to his old habits, seeking clicks like treats. He was still learning.

“You get a click for making me cum, not just for saying please,” you reply sternly. He whines against you.

“M’sorry baby,” he breathes.

“It’s o-okay,” you respond, stuttering when he brings his mouth back to suck on your clit. He lets go of you with a lewd pop!

“Can I use my fingers, too?” he asks you sweetly, staring up at you through those long lashes.

“You can use your fingers,” you whisper.

He brings his hand to your cunt and slowly drags two fingers through your folds, slicking them with you, before he pushes in. You whimper at the full feeling. He usually starts with one, but now he’s pumping two fingers in and out of you at a torturously slow pace while his tongue flicks your clit over and over. You can feel the spark in your stomach ignite again, and you bring one hand down to tangle your own fingers in his hair.

You pull him closer, and he picks up the pace. You can feel him part his fingers inside of you and you cry out at the stretch. He keeps working you, his deft fingers curling up to find that spot inside of you that has your head spinning. You arch your back off the bed, angling your hips towards his face and giving him better access. 

“Right there, fuck, yes, Lion, don’t stop,” you cry.

He strokes you again, and you can feel your heart thundering in your chest. 

“Cum for me baby, please,” he begs.

He hits that spot one more time, his calloused fingers applying just the right amount of pressure. You scream, gripping his hair so tight you’re almost worried about hurting him. Your orgasm shoots through you, heightened by the first one still lingering in your body. Every limb feels like it’s on fire, and your legs shake around his head. He slurps down the juices you release onto his tongue, savoring the taste of you. When he finally pulls his fingers out of your aching cunt, he brings them to his mouth and greedily sucks off the remainder of your orgasm.

You lie back in the bed, flushed and giddy. You chuckle softly in your bliss. Lion sits back on his heels, staring up at you as your chest rises and falls.

“Good boy,” you praise him through panting breath. “Good boy, Lion.”

You glance back down at him. He stares at you with his giant, sad, puppy dog eyes.

“C-can I have m-my k-kiss now?” he whimpers.

His finger delves deeper, poking inside through your panties and getting your soaked mess all over. He wiggles his fingers a certain way, harsher and deeper than the teasing before, drawing a reluctant squeal out of you with all your limbs going tense.

“Think I should give that pussy what she wants, shouldn’t I? Like you said, haven’t fucked you since yesterday, hunny. She needs her dick, let’s give it to her, let’s spoil her right here, right now,” he murmurs. Goes in to kiss and suck on your neck, two of his fingers dancing along your pussy lips, drenching them the more he flicks and teases. You swallow a whine and just hold the open book over your lap and spreading so that he keeps going, keeps that attention right on your pussy.

“Mmm. Ruined these panties. Let’s pull em to the side.”

He hums in appreciation with you, tucking the soaked crotch to the side and letting your pussy get some air. It’s delicious, the first skin on skin contact, his nubby fingers dipping back in to feel the squelching hotness throbbing right underneath him. Keeps kissing on your neck, chuckling every once in a while as you keep your paranoid glances out to see if anybody was tuning in, even in the darkness.

“Fuuuck. She thinkin’ about this dick? She thinkin’ about how I pounded her yesterday, huh? Pushed you up against the counter, spread her open with my tongue.. had to clean up what she’d been dripping on the floor,” he mutters, keeping those dangerous fingers swirling around your clit so good. He takes pleasure in your tight lipped gulp, the way your hips try not to but still ended up moving up against him, fishing for more contact you’d been so shy of getting out in the open. Right on your shared front porch.

“Baby… baby I can’t take it, need more than your fingers,” you whine quietly. Leaning up into him, watching with dazed half lidded eyes when he first pulls those fingers he had in you right out. How there’s a wet string connected between them, your arousal shining and coating just those two fingers of his. It’s risky, and stupid, and you could take two steps to the front door to go inside. Take care of business there, behind the private walls of your home. Ride him on the couch, or take him on the floor, or get pushed up in the kitchen like how he’d take you on lazy days in a hurry. But there was a thrill here you both wanted to chase. A thrill of stripping down just barely enough so his dick could find your pussy and fuck it like you needed him to.

“You wanna get fucked out here? Front of the neighborhood, like a little slut in heat, huh? Say it baby, say how bad you need this dick,” Remmick taunts. Beckons you with those slippery fingers he had hooked inside you, rubbing on the hood of your clit with the slick. A shit eating smile is etched on his face, knowing you couldn’t fucking resist when you’d already been wet and prepped, there wasn’t any going back. You wanted to take it out here, now.

“I need that dick filling this pussy up, baby, need you fucking it in me, tease me with it, please.”

Your hand goes in to squeeze his hard on through his sweats, feeling how he’s throbbing as hard as you are.

“Mmmhm. Yeah you do. C’mon. Get up. Wanna show the neighborhood how pretty you take it for me,” he grunts. When you both get up, your forgotten book you’d used as a shield drops to the ground. Takes your hand and guides you over to the side of the house, further away from the porch light. Only some crickets and the sound of the wind blowing to be heard, occasional chime of hanging bells that decorated neighbors’ front doors.

You’re pliant, in a hurry to be placed and positioned wherever he needed you to. He manhandled and maneuvered you around, stripping his sweats and his boxers down to his legs, bare and proud. Jerks his thick cock to the lucky view of your ass out and pressed up against the house a good number of times, feeling like he might bust the second he starts pumping in. He hisses when he rips the crotch of your panties to the side, exposing that pussy back to him again, watching you stick that ass out to back into him, feeling desperate for any kind of friction. He drags the tip of his cock along your wet, messy lips, feeling how you’re already drooling all over him just from a couple grinds.

“That pussy ready? She wanna get fucked like this out for anyone to see, anyone to hear, since this damn pussy’s so loud.”

“Yes. Yes. Line it up, baby please,” you plead, scooting back in search for more when he slaps the whole heavy length up against you with a chuckle under his breath.

“Thought you’d be too shy, but nah. When that pussy wants it she gonna take it. Back up into me some more, yeah, like that. That’s it.”

Remmick’s tip nudges up, slowly piercing itself in with the help of your hips, trying to find each other’s bodies in the dark. His eyesight was miles better in the night than yours, senses able to detect and perceive things you couldn’t. Made you feel safe, protected - even being as stupid and vulnerable as a position like this was.

Remmick’s lips find the back of your shoulder, plastering kisses with that hot breath going down your neck. You grip onto one of his hands while he makes his first full pump inside. Those full balls of his cradled up against your ass, clapping up onto you when he finally gets started. He feels your pussy clamp up like it never wants to let him go, dribbles slowly streaking down the more that he pumps. Your bodies joining and combining is the loudest sound to be heard out in the open like this. He keeps that one hand glued onto yours, holding you with assurance and care as his other hand keeps your panties pushed to the side so his cock is able to keep plummeting in. He’ll get cheeky with teasing you, thrusting in the gush with just the tip. That leaking, pudgy, bulbous tip teasing your warm walls - trembling when he slams it all right back in to break the pattern.

He shoves your panties over so hard you’re sure you hear the fabric pulling and tearing from his force. Once he’s deemed his dick has enough room he grabs hold of the base, stopping while he’s halfway stuffed inside to wiggle the girth to stimulate your walls. It makes him chuckle when you whine, feeling him pushing into your pussy side to side like that, one of your favorite types of dirty strokes you get from him. He breathes real heavy once he takes a break to pump all the way back in again, feeling and hearing how your wetness has multiplied, sloshing all over the base of his dick with every delightful dip in.

“Got that pussy creamin. Mm. She loves that move, don’t she,” Remmick mumbles, repeating the same zig-zag strokes, almost losing all composure when you clench and cream on him even more. “Oh fuck! Go on, slut, bounce back on it, give her that fill.”

You grab a better hold of the side of the house, so lost in the full slide of his long, juicy cock to even remember you were out in the open. Your hips push back in a grind so dirty it’s audible every time he goes back in, giving any nosy neighbors some grimy filth to not only watch but also listen to. How his engorged balls snap up onto you, wet slop building up on that dick every goddamn time it’s entering you. Your hips swirl and fuck back as aggressively as you could physically muster, addicted to the filling as he throbs inside you.

“Remmy. Ohh Remmm, baby I’m gonna cum on that dick,” you warn. Trembling with more unbelievable excitement when he buries himself all the way in, wiggling his hips to vibrate around your gummy walls. Rewarded with more thick cream with every filthy drag. He slurps up a hickey on the back of your neck, panting like the adrenaline’s getting to him just as good as it is to you.

“Got myself the prettiest creamer, yeah, smear that cum all over this dick. Fuck.”

You both take to the same rhythm, fucking into each other to get the goods. Feel and draw out every last warming sensation. You only clench around him about three to four more times, Remmick watching with glowing eyes as your little hole tightens down on him.

“She’s gonna cum, mmm, relax that pussy baby, lemme do the rest,” he hurries. Stopping your hips from exhausting themselves even further with a hand, then worming his length all the way in, and slowly all the way out, letting your little pussy clench and let loose onto the thick weight. He soothes you with gentle shushes, wags his member from side to side again, knowing that’ll trigger it for you. And it did. He hears your moan interrupt your exhale, tightening up against him in rhythmic beats of your long, hot orgasm. The sounds between your legs were filthy, delectable. Remmick’s breathing sped up as he kept fucking you through it, and his balls drop when his entire cock twitches.

“SHIT, m’gonna nut. I’m bout to nut in you baby, here it comes, take it all in that thirsty little pussy.”

His load spills and he just pumps himself through it. Marveling in the hot friction of the grooves of your walls. Your weak little pussy clenches sting they feel so good, milking him all the way out with cum slathering up your guts and slowly escaping through the juicy lips of your pussy. Stray drips gathering in a gooey puddle of milk on the dirt of the ground. Remmick’s hands massage the cheeks of your ass, squeezing in comforting circles while his load dribbles out even more.

Remmick is still catching his breath, clenching his jaw and feeding you more love bites and kisses. When he wants your face he turns your jaw to the side and gives you a warm kiss on the lips, panting right into your mouth sharing oxygen when he softly pulls himself out. Quickly yanking your drenched, stretched, tangled up panties back to cover you up, his eyes peeking around to watch for any witnesses.

“Coast is still clear, hunny. I’ve got you. Always gonna protect you,” he whispers in between more smooches, kisses seeming so innocent save for the fact that you’ve been spilling the rest of his load out into your panties. He keeps his massaging at your ass, your lower back. “Think we gave that old man ‘cross the street a show? He’s got a crush on you. I can tell,” he teases, grinning with raises eyebrows and mischief when he bends back over to pull his pants back up, become decent again. Not that it really mattered now. What’s done is done.

His damp cock bobs when he tries pulling his drawls back up, leaving him to tuck it back in with his own hand before pressing you back up onto the wall and capturing you in another long kiss.

“He knows though.”

“Shut up. Knows what?” you shake your head, stroking his thick arms up and down.

“Knows I fuck you good,” Remmick quips. Kisses you with more possessive, aggressive tongue before turning back to the side to where the supposedly pervy old man lives and thrusts his middle finger up to his house.

“Knows he couldn’t keep up with this bratty ass like I can. C’mere, I’ll carry you inside,” he goes down at the bend of your knee, hauling you in his arms bridal style before marching back over to your front porch. Kicks your door open and leaves your forgotten book outside. Under his arm as he’s carrying you toward the living room couch he feels exactly how soaked he’s left you, all his cum gathered up, soiling your panties. After shutting and locking the front door he’s right back on you, diving in to rip your drawls right back down your legs. Your feet kick in the air as you’re laughing, seeing his hungry face once he gets ahold of them again and sniffs the crotch of them down. Flattens his tongue to lick the mess out, spreading the fabric in his hands and looking down at you as he just keeps on licking.

“Mmm. Know how many would kill just to taste this,” he rasps. Biting the fabric in between his teeth to suck whatever’s left in it.

“Yeah? Taste your cum for my underwear?”

“Oh yeah, baby. Our cum. Old prick next door would be lickin’ his lips,” Remmick murmurs. Taking hold of both your thighs to stare and ogle at his prize, the messy leftovers still dripping between your pussy lips.

“We can fuck outside next time right on the porch, maybe show off a little better.”

Remmick’s in the middle of spitting down right on your swollen button when his brows shot up to his forehead with an impressed shock.

“Yeah? Wanna ride me on that chair out there right under the light? Where’d my shy girl go?” he teased. Swirled his spit further into you with his thumb, hearing the ridiculous mess get even hotter. You whimper and buck into him like you didn’t just get fucked five minutes ago, already moaning for more while Remmick’s smile stayed growing ear to ear with every noise and movement you made.

“Aww, I know baby, I know. Must’ve really fucked the shy right outta you.”

———

"You wrecked my things and didn't even apologise." Your arms fold on themselves as you turn your head away from him in a huff.

Remmick is slowly settling himself onto the sofa cushions beside you. "That ain't true, I said I didn't mean to."

Not an apology.

With a practised stillness, you don't even recognise that he's creeping closer to you until his fingers are brushing over your forearm.

"Remmick." Your voice is stern, a warning to him as you cross your arms. A warning that gets ignored in favour of a pair of chilled lips against your neck with a feigned innocent 'hm?' from him. The initial contact makes you gasp gently; it always does.

"I ain't doin' anythin' am I?" You can hear him smirk around the words. A part of you wants to retaliate, but a soft noise leaves you instead when his fingers snake up your side to slowly palm at your breast. The brush of his thumb over your nipple and light nibbles against your neck make your breath hitch. Pretty soon after, you're melting against him until you're lying down, Remmick having managed to sneak his way on top.

Your thighs are interlaced as Remmick pulls back to let his eyes flicker over you. The motion is predatory in nature, but the way he presses his lips against yours is anything but. The way they move against you is full of need, not demand, and you let a quiet sigh leave your throat. You can feel Remmick moan into you in return as you allow him to deepen the kiss; this was the third time since he wrecked the furniture that he's tried to kiss you, and you decide to string it out a little longer.

The pang of heat inside you is undeniable, particularly as you feel the tell-tale twitch of Remmick's cock up against your thigh. You let your hands carefully roam Remmick's back as you slide your tongue over his bottom lip. The excitement catches in his throat, hopeful that you've finally forgiven him enough to let him fuck you again.

The warmth blossoms through you, and as if he can taste it on your tongue, Remmick's hand moves down you rub your cunt through your jeans. Your hips rise enough to grind up against his palm, and you can feel the way Remmick's fangs ease out for you. Despite your frustration with Remmick, there's a familiar feeling of slickness with every press of your hips. The hard outline of his erection through his jeans is visible if you peek, and you slide your hands down his sides.

Carefully, you move his palm away from your sex. You replace his hand by raising your thigh, hearing a small whine from above in response. When you grip Remmick's hips to draw them firmly against your thigh, his groan is stuttered as he's forced to dry hump you. Not that it takes any convincing, his cock is already strained against the confines of the fabric and jerking underneath it as he grinds against you. He breaks the increasingly wet kiss to suck down air, only to let a ragged noise punch out of him with a particularly slow thrust against you.

"-Wantchu." Remmick swallows the drool that's leaking out of his mouth, and you feel yourself grin at the glazed-over look to his half-lidded eyes.

"You're so easy to get riled up." You let out a faint laugh, and there's a visible shiver through Remmick at your words, hands planted either side of you as he lets his eyes wander. You slide your palm over to the pronounced tent in his clothes, cupping him through the material and giving a slow, teasing squeeze. "Aren't you, baby?"

Remmick only nods dumbly as he drags his cock over your palm, his face already a lovely shade of pink, courtesy of his earlier feed. "Y-Yes- Please, stop teasin'…"

You decide for sure then that you're not going to let him fully have what he wants, and you undo his belt and the front of his jeans with a grin. "I'm not sure, Rems… I don't think you deserve to fuck me."

Remmick's mouth forms a small 'o' when you palm him through the thin material of his boxers; he looks so lovely, softly panting against his fangs and his brows furrowed. "Not… even a little? Just the tip, please." He swallows down his pride as his hips twitch, and something cruel blooms inside you.

When you take his length out and push his clothes down just enough so they're resting on the top of his thighs, he flashes an excited smile. He rushes to undo your own jeans, breaking from you only momentarily to remove them, then he's nestled between your legs like he belongs there. You wrap your fingers around his thick cock to give him lazy pumps of your fist, and his eyes flutter shut as he thrusts up into your hand.

That heat from before rushes to your lower abdomen, and you guide Remmick down until he's grinding down against your soaked underwear. His breath hitches at how much the thin fabric slides against your folds, and he forces his eyes open to plead with you. "Sugar, please." There's a misjudged grind from Remmick, and his cock slips under the edge of your underwear. His hips stutter at the wet feeling, and he sharply inhales. "Fuck, you're soaked- P-Please. Wanna be inside."

Your clit throbs against the tip of him, but you manage to keep composed. "Apologise." The single word cuts at Remmick's resolve, and you think you catch a snarl before he corrects himself.

"No." He struggles to say anything else at first, and when he denies you the apology, your eyes narrow. You slide two fingers against his parted lips, and Remmick reflexively opens up to allow it, immediately sucking them with a groan.

You feel your own face heat with the sensation, but you're determined to get an apology. "Apologise, or I'll rip out the threshold and put a new one up. See how well you wreck my stuff when you can't get back in." Remmick knows that you're stubborn enough to back your words up, and you give a few thrusts of your fingers against his tongue before slowly retracting them. Instead, you reach down to take hold of his cock, moving your underwear to the side to slide the head of him along your soaked folds.

Remmick's breath catches a few times as he restrains himself from bucking his hips against you. When you suddenly push him away, Remmick lets out a tiny growl from the back of his throat. "Fine. I-I'm sorry, alright? Shouldn't have- fuck- should've been careful."

Your lips crack into a cocky smirk as you run a wet finger over the head of Remmick's cock, circling it teasingly enough to make him whine under his breath. "Good boy, Remmick." A louder moan spills out of him than he meant to with the praise, and you let go so that he lines himself up with your entrance. Remmick's breath is already ragged as he looks down, and just as he's about to push into you, you speak out clearly. "Just the tip, remember?"

Remmick freezes, eyes snapped up at you with his brows pinched in confusion. His mouth moves to ask why, but you only raise a brow. "That's what you begged for, so take it or leave it." You could get drunk off the way Remmick crumbles overhead, and you half expect him to fuck up into you the way he wants anyway.

But he doesn't.

His teeth grit as he pushes the head of his cock into you with a guttural sound ripping from his chest. You feel his thighs tremble and the desperate way his fingers grip into the fat of your hip to anchor himself. "Please." The sound is wet, slick with drool and needy as he swallows down a hiccup.

The slow stretch of him makes you keen, but you stay strong to what you say. "No." You repeat the way he said it, and instead, you quickly find your swollen clit with your fingers. Remmick wets his lips at the sight of you, pulling back out only to thrust back in and stop frustratingly quick.

His head drops as he pants, breathing hitching on itself with need. "S..Sugar, I-I…"

"Touch yourself, Rems." You pant out to him as you rub quick circles into yourself, feeling the wet pulse against your fingers and the pleasure curling tightly.

Remmick stares at you, bewildered as he obeys to take the rest of his cock in his hands. You watch the flush darken on his face as he starts to pump his fist as much as he can, all the while dipping the tip of himself in and out with an uneven pace. Remmick pauses for a moment, only to let himself freely drool into his open palm. Then he's lowering his hand to wrap his wet fingers around himself again.

He only said it to try to convince you, but it's more sensitive than Remmick had bargained for. His jaw hangs open as wanton moans begin to freely spill out of him, uncaring as to how it sounds now as he gets lost in the new, restricted feeling.

"Doing so good for me, baby." You coo up to Remmick, and it has him nodding frantically. Then you're clenching the entrance of your cunt around him purposefully, and a needy sound is wrenched out of him.

He glides his hand over himself in a messier pace, the pang of shame in his chest from it, but lapping it up like a feedback loop. "Want all of you." You manage to bite back a moan at his desperate little whimpers, and you can tell that Remmick is struggling to restrict himself to only the tip. Somehow, through your string of praises and his surprise at how good it feels, he manages to stick to it until he can feel his peak getting closer much sooner than he anticipated.

Something about only the head of Remmick's cock sliding into you is focusing on sensitive parts you hadn't paid much attention to before. While you touch yourself, you play with your breasts with your free hand, letting Remmick stare while the teasing seemingly throughout your body somehow pulls you closer to your climax. When you feel your clit throb in a way you know you're close, there's barely time to let Remmick know before your head tips back and your back is arching off the sofa.

As you cry out, Remmick whimpers overhead at the way you clench around his flushed cock. You can hear the hand next to your side curling into a fist against the fabric, and his fangs are clenched in a way that you know he's about to come.

"Shit, I-I'm gonna come already-" He pants out as his fist speeds up on himself, slick with drool and making obscene noises between you.

You manage to steady yourself enough to give one more command to him. "Not inside." It was a little unfair, but hearing Remmick's voice crack in his throat, it was worth it.

Remmick gives an obedient nod as he shakily pulls out of you, and instead, he leans forward as he strokes the full length of his cock. He watches you, eyes unfocused as you both listen to the wet slap of his hand on his length, until…

A faint growl works its way out of Remmick as he released into his hand. He tries to catch as much as he can, but ultimately, it ends up dripping through his fingers and onto your shirt.

You feel your cunt clench around nothing, though with a faint grimace, you give a half laugh. "You just can't stop making a mess of my things, can you?"

Roy had been there from the very first desperate mile. You had grown up together under Frank’s dark wing, two children trapped in a den of wolves, but the moment you broke free, Roy became your anchor.

For seven years, he had been your shadow, your protector, and the only soul alive who knew the exact shape of your nightmares. He was a man who hoarded his words like gold coin, but in the suffocating silence of the high plains, his steady, quiet presence was the only thing keeping the madness at bay.

You had survived the cold nights and the close calls because Roy knew how to bleed for you. But as you stared out into the vast, unforgiving emptiness, a cold realization settled deep in your chest. Survival wasn't enough anymore. You were tired of being the one who needed saving.

So you had begged him—not with tears, but with the raw, jagged edge of a voice tired of whispering in the dark.

He hadn't argued. Roy never argued. He had simply looked at you, his blue eyes holding a heavy, sorrowful understanding, and reached for his gun belt.

Now, the mercy of the morning coolness was long gone.

And the midday sun hung overhead like a polished brass plate, beating down on the high plains until the horizon waves and shimmers with heat. Dust stuck to the sweat on your neck, grimy and sharp. While across the dirt yard, sitting on a sun-bleached fence post, was a single green glass bottle. In the glare of the noon light, it caught the sun, glinting like a mocking, emerald eye.

You squinted against the blinding brightness, your vision swimming. The Colt in your hand felt entirely too heavy, a lump of cold iron that makes your wrist ache and your fingers slick with sweat. To you, that bottle looked miles away, an impossible target shifting in the heat haze. You don't understand how he did it—how he ever made the iron an extension of his own hand, how he moved with that effortless, lethal grace while you are left squinting, breathing hard, and feeling entirely out of your depth.

You lowered the barrel, the weight of the iron dragging your arm down toward the dirt. A frustrated, ragged breath escaped your lips, tasting of dust and defeat.

Then came the crunch of boots in the dry dirt.

Roy closed the distance between you without a sound. He didn't speak—he didn't need to—but the sudden shift in the air told you he was there, blocking out the harsh glare of the midday sun. He stepped up directly behind you, his chest brushing against your shoulder blades. The heat radiating from his body was different from the oppressive sun; it was a fierce, protective warmth that enveloped you completely, smelling of leather, horse sweat, and the sharp, clean scent of gun oil.

Your pulse gave a sudden, wild flutter against your ribs as his large, calloused hands slid down your arms. His skin was rough, a stark reminder of the hard life you both shared, but his touch was incredibly deliberate. Unyielding.

"You’re fighting it," he murmured, his low voice a gravelly rumble right beside your ear, sending a sharp shiver down your spine despite the sweltering heat.

His hands moved to your hips. The grip of his fingers were firm and heavy through the thin fabric of your clothes, physically shifting your weight, forcing your boots deeper into the sun-baked earth until your stance was grounded and unshakeable.

"If your feet aren't planted, the iron owns you," he whispered, his breath warm against your neck.

He slid his hands back up to your arms, his palms tracing the line of your muscles until his fingers wrapped directly over yours around the cold steel of the Colt's grip. His hands completely engulfed yours, massive and steady. With a gentle but unyielding pressure, he lifted your arm, forcing the heavy barrel back up toward the shimmering horizon. He adjusted your wrist, tilting it just a fraction of an inch until the front sight aligned perfectly with the glinting green bottle.

The intimacy of it was a sharp, aching pressure in your chest. He was holding you so close you could feel the steady thud of his heartbeat against your back, guiding you into a posture meant for killing, even as his touch offered the only true safety you had ever known.

"But you don't ever sit still," you sighed, your voice ragged against the wall of his chest. Your heart hammered against your ribs, trapped between his unyielding grip and the sheer frustration of the impossible task. "You can shoot off a god damned horse."

A low, vibrating rumble started deep in his chest—a sound that was almost a laugh, though there was no humor in it, only the grim reality of a man who had been baptized in gunpowder.

"The horse does the standing for me," Roy murmured, his grip tightening just enough to steady the tremble in your fingers. His thumb stroked the back of your hand, a heavy, calloused reassurance that felt like fire against your skin. "My boots don't move from the stirrups. The saddle is my dirt. You find your ground, wherever it is, and you lock yourself into it."

He pressed closer, his torso completely bracketing yours, forcing your shoulders to square against the blinding glare of the noon sun.

"Just breathe with it, okay?"

You tried not to roll your eyes, but the sheer force of keeping the gun steady took every ounce of your attention—even with his massive hands reinforcing your own. But you listened, begrudgingly.

You closed one eye, letting the rest of the shimmering desert blur into nothingness as you focused entirely on the glinting green glass at the tip of your front sight. You moved slowly, deliberately, letting him guide your movements with effortless ease until the muzzle and the target lined up perfectly in the heat haze.

The silence stretching between you, thick and heavy with the midday heat, until Roy’s voice broke it, low and steady against your ear.

"Breathe," he commanded softly. "Deep."

Before you could draw the air in, his left hand slid away from your arm and pressed flat against your lower abdomen. The warmth of his palm seared through your clothes, heavy and grounding, mapping the rise and fall of your stomach.

A sudden, fierce heat rushed to your face, deepening into a burning flush that had nothing to do with the New Mexico sun. Your heart kicked hard against your ribs, but you forced yourself to stay absolutely still, locked in the cradle of his frame while his other hand remained a solid bracket over yours, keeping the heavy iron aimed true.

"In," he murmured, his palm rising slightly with you.

You inhaled the scent of him, the dust, the leather, filling your lungs until they ached.

"Out."

You let the breath go, your shoulders dropping, your frame settling completely into his chest. In that microscopic space between the exhale and the next breath, the world went entirely still. The heat haze stopped shimmering. The wind died.

"Shoot," he whispered.

You squeezed.

The Colt roared, a deafening crack that shattered the midday silence and sent a violent tremor straight up your arm, absorbed instantly by the solid wall of Roy's body behind you.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. The lead bullet tore through the shimmering heat, a lethal line cutting across the dirt yard until it found its mark. The green glass bottle didn’t just break; it exploded. A sudden, brilliant burst of emerald shards erupted into the air, catching the blinding glare of the sun like a handful of cheap diamonds before raining down into the dust.

The heavy tension holding you together snapped in an instant.

A wild, breathless squeal of pure excitement tore from your throat, and you completely forgot about the heavy iron, forgot about the phantom of Frank Griffin, forgot about the seven years of running.

"I did it!" you gasped, the words tumbling out in a breathless, radiant laugh. "Roy, I actually hit it!"

A slow, genuine smile broke across his face—a rare, beautiful thing that transformed his rugged features, clearing away the shadows that usually hung over him. His blue eyes crinkled at the corners, bright with a sudden, fierce pride.

"You sure did," he murmured, his voice lower than usual, carrying a thick, gravelly warmth that vibrated straight through your chest.

But as the echo of the gunshot faded into the vast emptiness of the plains, the excitement in the air began to shift, thickening into something heavy and consuming.

You were still trapped within the bracket of his arms. You hadn't moved, and neither had he. His left hand was still resting against your lower abdomen, the heat of his palm seared into your skin, while his right hand gently took the weight of the Colt from your fingers, lowering it to his side without ever breaking eye contact.

Standing this close, you could see the fine gold flecks in his eyes, the dust coating his eyelashes, and the rapid, shallow rise and fall of his chest. He was looking down at you not just as a protector, and not just as the boy you grew up with in the dark. There was a raw, aching hunger in his gaze—a fierce, possessive reverence that he had spent seven years trying to hide behind his silence.

His thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle against your waist, a tiny movement that made your breath catch in your throat. For seven years, you had bled for each other and run from monsters, but in the quiet space between your heartbeats, the greatest danger in the territory was the sheer, terrifying depth of what lay unsaid between you.

"Uh-uh, Roy," you murmured, a soft, breathless laugh bubbling up from your chest. You leaned back just an inch, your eyes dancing as you looked up at him through the heat. "I know that look."

The corners of his mouth twitched, the rare smile lingering on his lips as his gaze tracked the movement of your mouth. He didn't pull away. If anything, his grip on your waist tightened, anchoring you against him so completely that the rest of the world just fell away.

"Do ya?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that felt like a physical vibration against your ribs.

"I do," you whispered.

The playful tease faded as quickly as it had come, swallowed by the heavy, sudden memory of a time before the trail grew so blood-soaked and bitter. You had known that look since you were teenagers, wrapped in stolen blankets in the dead of winter while Frank’s camp slept.

He had been your first—the first boy to hold you gently in a world full of monsters. You hadn’t been his only one back then, in the wild chaos of the gang, but it had never mattered. Not really. Because through all the dust, the shootouts, and the women who came and went, Roy had always come back to you. Always.

Slowly, deliberately, he raised his right hand—the one that had just guided yours to kill—and brushed the back of his knuckles against your heated cheek. His skin was rough, calloused from reins and iron, but his touch was so incredibly gentle it made your throat ache.

"Seven years," he murmured, the words scraped raw from the back of his throat. It was more than he usually spoke in an entire day, each syllable heavy with the weight of every mile you had traveled in the dark. "Seven years of watching over you. Running with you."

His hand slid down, his thumb hooking beneath your chin, tilting your face up just a fraction more. The scent of leather and parched earth enveloped you, thick and intoxicating.

"You think you know the look," Roy whispered, his blue eyes darkening with an ancient, familiar hunger. He leaned in, his forehead brushing against yours, his breath a warm, ragged caress. "But you don't know the half of it. No matter where the trail takes us... I’m always gonna find my way back to you."

The promise was an unyielding devotion delivered with the gritty, unvarnished honesty of a man who knew just how easily the world could bleed. Your breath hitched, your hands instinctively coming up to bunch into the rough fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer because the seven years of waiting were suddenly entirely too much to bear.

"Then stay right here, Roy," you breathed against his lips.

He didn't need to be told twice. Roy closed the remaining distance, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that was fierce, protective, and desperately hungry. It tasted of salt, dust, and a profound, aching relief—the familiar, beautiful ghost of your youth, finally reclaimed in the desert sun.

The kiss went deep, hard and heavy, a desperate reclamation of everything the years had tried to steal from you both. His mouth was unsparing, tasting of the noon heat and the sharp, metallic tang of gunpowder, but beneath the grit was a fierce, protective reverence that made your knees go weak.

Roy’s hand left your chin, his fingers tangling into your hair, tilting your head back to possess you completely. He groaned into your mouth, a low, starved sound that rattled against your teeth. His other arm wrapped like a steel band around your waist, hoisting you up until your toes barely brushed the dirt, burying your front into the solid wall of his chest.

For seven years you had been ghosts on the wind, running from a man who wanted you dead, but right here, locked in Roy's arms, you were entirely, fiercely alive.

When he finally pulled back, he didn't go far. He rested his cheek against yours, his chest heaving as he drew the hot desert air into his lungs. His fingers stayed tightly knotted in your hair, his grip possessive, unyielding—the grip of a man who had finally found his ground and refused to let go.

"You don't need to learn to shoot," he rasped against your ear, his voice thicker, rougher than before. His thumb stroked the sensitive skin at the nape of your neck, sending a delicious shiver straight down your spine. "Not while I'm breathing. I'll take every god damned bullet Frank sends our way before I let one touch you."

You leaned into him, letting your forehead drop against the hollow of his neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of horse sweat, sun-warmed leather, and him.

"I know you would," you whispered, your hands smoothing over the tense, knotted muscles of his shoulders. "But I'm still gonna hit that next bottle, Roy."

A low, genuine chuckle vibrated against your chest. He pulled back just enough to look down at you, those striking blue eyes softer now, crinkling at the corners with a quiet, enduring devotion.

"Alright," he murmured, his thumb tracing the swollen contour of your lower lip, a lingering promise of what was waiting for you when the sun went down. He stepped back just an inch, his hand sliding down to engulf yours once more, lifting the heavy Colt between you. "Let's see it then. Line it up."

You took a deep breath, swallowing the dust and the lingering taste of him, and faced the horizon. Across the dirt yard, another green bottle sat waiting, a fresh emerald eye mocking you from the fence post. Your hands were trembling, the adrenaline of the kiss and the heavy weight of the Colt making your wrist ache, but you forced your boots down into the parched earth, just like he’d shown you.

Find your ground.

You lifted the iron. You closed one eye, squinting against the blinding glare of the sun until the shimmering desert blurred into nothingness, leaving only that glinting green target at the tip of your front sight. You didn't look at the wind. You didn't think about Frank Griffin. You just breathed. In. Out.

In the quiet space between heartbeats, you squeezed the trigger.

The gun roared, kicking violently against your palm. For a terrifying second, you thought you'd missed—and then, the sharp, beautiful crack of breaking glass echoed across the plane. The bottle shattered into a dozen glittering pieces, raining down into the dirt.

A breathless, wild scream of pure, unadulterated triumph tore from your throat. You didn't care about being a hardened survivor; you spun around, jumping slightly, your face split by a grin so wide it made your cheeks ache. "I did it! Roy, I did it all by myself!"

Roy just stood there, his arms crossed over his chest, but the look on his face was worth more than all the gold in the territory. That rare, devastating smile soft on his lips, his blue eyes burning with a fierce, quiet pride that made your heart roll over.

"Told you," he whispered. "You just had to find your ground."

And so you had. So you kept on with it until the time the sun began its slow bleed into the western horizon, staining the sky in bruised shades of amethyst and gold, your knuckles were raw and your wrist throbbed with a dull, heavy ache. You had lined up twenty more bottles. You had shattered twelve, the glittering green shards forming a mini graveyard in the dirt, but the eight misses still rankled, tasting like dust in your mouth.

You raised the Colt again, your forearm trembling with pure exhaustion, squinting through the creeping twilight at the next target.

"That's enough," Roy’s voice cut through the quiet, a low, unyielding rumble from just behind your shoulder.

"Just one more," you muttered, refusing to lower the iron. "I almost have the lead on the wind. Just let me—"

Before you could finish, a large, calloused hand clamped gently but firmly over the top of the barrel, forcing the gun down. Roy stepped into your space, his massive frame blocking out the fading light, and with a swift, effortless motion of his fingers, he slipped the Colt cleanly out of your slick palm.

"I said that's enough," he murmured, a trace of amusement dancing in his blue eyes as he holstered the weapon. "Your wrist is shaking like a leaf. You keep going, the iron’s gonna win."

"God dammit, Roy," you breathed, a sharp, ragged curse slipping past your lips as you stepped into his space, the heat of your frustration rolling off you in the cooling twilight. "I was right there. Why you gotta go and ruin the only good thing I’ve felt all day?"

He just stood there, completely unbothered by the bite in your voice, though his blue eyes darkened as they tracked the fierce, stubborn rise and fall of your chest. With that slow, agonizingly calm grace that always made your blood run hot, he cleared the cylinder of the Colt and holstered it.

"Your arm is dead, and you're shooting angry," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration in the quiet yard. "Tomorrow."

A wicked, defiant spark flared in your chest—a sudden need to break that unshakeable composure of his. Before he could anticipate the movement, you lunged forward, your fingers brushing the rough skin of his forehead as you snatched the heavy, battered Stetson clean off his head.

"Hey—" Roy growled, a low, predatory sound snapping from his throat as his brows came together in genuine surprise.

But you were already moving. You jammed the oversized hat onto your own head, the scent of him—sweat, tobacco, and old leather—instantly enveloping your senses as you took off across the dirt yard, a breathless, wicked laugh trailing behind you into the gathering shadows of the high plains.

The silence of the plains swallowed his response, but the sharp, sudden twitch of his jaw told you everything you needed to know. Roy didn't chase you on foot. He didn't waste his breath calling after you.

Instead, he turned with a fluid, lethal grace and swung his long leg over the saddle of his bay horse.

The thud of hooves against the sun-baked earth sounded behind you, a heavy, rhythmic thunder that made the adrenaline spike raw and sweet in your veins. You didn't even make it to the edge of the brush before the horse’s shadow engulfed yours, blocking out the last violet rays of twilight. Roy leaned down from the saddle, a massive, unyielding silhouette, and wrapped a single, iron-hard arm around your waist.

He hoisted you off your feet with effortless, terrifying strength, plucking you right out of the dirt. A breathless gasp tore from your throat as he hauled you up against his thigh, his grip possessive and entirely unyielding as he turned the horse back toward the small, weather-worn shack you were hiding out in. He didn't look down at you, his features set in stone, but the heavy thud of his heart against your shoulder told you the quiet frontier man was done waiting.

He dismounted in one smooth motion, dragging you down with him, and practically carried you over the threshold. The heavy wooden door slammed shut behind you, cutting off the howling wind of the high plains and plunging the room into the deep, shadows of the candlelit cabin.

"You think you're fast enough to run from me?" Roy rasped, his voice a low, dark growl that vibrated straight through your bones.

He reached up, plucking his battered Stetson off your head and tossing it onto the table, before his large hands came down to grip your hips, pinning you firmly against the rough wood of the door. The heat radiating off him was thick, suffocating, and entirely consuming—the exact promise that had been lingering on his lips out in the dirt yard.

"And you think you can take my things without paying the toll?" His blue eyes burned with a fierce, predatory light, stripping away the quiet protector to reveal the lethal man underneath. His thumb pressed firmly into the dip of your waist, a heavy, deliberate reminder of who owned your gaze. "I told you out there, the iron wins if you fight it. And you've been fighting me all day."

He leaned in close, his breath a hot, ragged caress against your neck that sent a delicious, terrifying shiver straight down your spine. "You want to play the outlaw, sweetheart? Fine. But you're gonna learn what happens to thieves in this territory."

"You ain't no saint, Roy Goode," you breathed, a defiant, wicked smile curving your lips even as your heart battered itself ragged against your ribs. You leaned up, your front flushing flat against the hard wall of his chest. "An outlaw got no right accusing a thief."

A low, dangerous growl started deep in his throat, his jaw tightening until the muscle ticked. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath a scorching contrast to the chill seeping into the cabin.

"Watch me," he rasped.

The last shred of his unshakeable frontier patience snapped. Roy gathered you up in his arms, his grip iron-hard and possessive, and hauled you back against the mattress. The heavy canvas and straw hissed beneath your weight as he came down over you, a massive, suffocating shadow that blocked out everything but the heat radiating off his skin.

There was no more running. No more ghosts from Frank Griffin's camp, no more miles of bitter alkali dust between you. There was only the raw, consuming friction of the last seven years finally burning to the ground.

His mouth found yours with a fierce, punishing hunger that stole the breath right out of your lungs. It was an unsparing, desperate kiss, tasting of salt, heat, and the heavy reverence of a man who had died a thousand deaths watching over you in the dark. Your fingers bunched frantically into the rough fabric of his shirt, tearing at the buttons, needing the heat of his bare skin against your palms.

Roy groaned into your mouth, a dark, starved sound as his heavy hands pinned your wrists to the mattress, locking you down, a silent reminder of the punishment he’d promised. But when his fingers slid down to tangle in yours, squeezing tight, it was the same steady anchor that had held your hand steady on the iron.

He stripped away the thin fabric of your clothes with an agonizing, deliberate slow grace, his calloused palms mapping every inch of your skin until you were shivering, your skin flushing a deep, burning pink in the dim candlelight.

Roy moved over you with the same slow, unyielding gravity he used to cross the high plains. He didn't rush; a man who had survived seven years on the run knew the value of patience, knew that the greatest rewards were the ones fought for in the dark.

He parted your thighs with a heavy knee, settling his weight fully between them. The sheer, massive bulk of him was a suffocating, beautiful pressure, pinning you to the straw mattress until you couldn't have run even if the devil himself was at the door. He leaned down, bracing his forearms on either side of your head, his blue eyes black in the dim candlelight as they searched your face.

"Look at me," he commanded. It wasn't a growl this time, but a low, raw plea, his voice thicker and rougher than you had ever heard it.

You met his gaze, your breath catching as he pushed inside you. He went slow—agonizingly, unbearably slow—stretching you open, filling the empty, aching spaces that had belonged to him since you were kids. A ragged gasp tore from your throat, your fingers clawing into the tense muscles of his back as your body adjusted to the thick, unyielding intrusion of him.

Roy paused, burying himself to the hilt, his chest heaving against your breasts as he let you take the full weight of him. He didn't move for a long, heavy beat, just gripped your hips with fingers that left bruises, anchoring you both to the bed.

"You're mine," he rasped against your lips, his hot breath mingling with yours. "You hear me? From the day we left that camp. Every mile. Every bullet. It’s always been you."

He began to move, a deep, bruising rhythm that was entirely unsparing. Roy wasn't a man for sweet words or soft poetry, but every heavy thrust against your hips was a confession, spoken in the ancient language of sweat and skin. He knew exactly how to break you. His calloused hand slid down between your bodies, his thumb finding the slick, swollen heat of you, pressing and rubbing with a practiced, deliberate friction that sent a violent jolt of lightning straight to your core.

Your head flung back against the mattress, an undone, shameless cry tearing from your throat. The pleasure was too sharp, too intense, mounting like a prairie fire fueled by the wind. You arched into him, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist, pulling him deeper, demanding the absolute wreckage of his restraint.

The frantic, breathless rhythm of the mattress suddenly stalled as Roy caught his breath, his chest heaving against yours. The heat rolling off his skin was thick and suffocating, but before the fire could even begin to cool, a wicked, defiant thought sparked in your mind.

You didn't want him to take the lead anymore. Not after seven years of being the one who was shielded, the one who was followed.

With a sudden, burst of adrenaline, you planted your palms against his massive shoulders and pushed. Roy let out a low, surprised grunt, but he didn't fight you; he let his weight shift, rolling onto his back beneath you with a heavy, fluid grace.

In one swift, breathless motion, you straddled his hips, sitting up straight in the dim candlelight. Your gaze dropped to the wooden table beside the bed where his battered Stetson lay. You reached over, snatching the heavy leather hat, and jammed it right back onto your head, letting the wide brim cast a dark shadow over your eyes.

Down beneath you, Roy’s jaw went completely slack. A dangerous, incredibly dark look flashed across his striking blue eyes as he stared up at you, his large hands coming up to grip your thighs with a bruising, possessive intensity.

"You're a menace," he rasped, his voice a gravelly rumble that sent a thrill straight down your spine.

"I told you, Roy," you whispered, a slow, triumphant smile curving your lips as you tilted the brim of the hat up just enough to lock eyes with him. "An outlaw can't accuse a thief."

You lifted your hips and came down hard, impaling yourself back on the thick, unyielding length of him. Roy let out a strangled, predatory groan that shook his entire frame, his fingers digging so deep into your thighs that you knew they’d leave marks by morning.

You began to ride him, your movements slow and deliberate at first, setting a heavy, agonizing pace that made his eyes roll back. The oversized Stetson wobbled on your head with every roll of your hips, a visual taunt in the flickering shadows of the cabin. Roy’s hands slid up from your thighs to your waist, his thumbs pressing hard into your hips, trying to control the rhythm, but you held your ground, keeping him pinned beneath the absolute wreckage of your control.

"Look at you," he choked out, his chest heaving, his face flushing a deep, dark red as he looked up at the wild, breathtaking sight of you wearing his crown while taking everything he had to give. "God dammit... look at you."

The praise was the ultimate fuel. You picked up the pace, the heat between your bodies turning into a blistering, friction-heavy storm. You arched your back, the leather hat finally tumbling off your head and discarding into the sheets as you threw your head back, riding him fiercely into the dark until the prairie fire consumed you both entirely.

You rode him fiercely, each heavy down-drop of your hips driving him closer to the absolute edge of his restraint. Roy’s hands were no longer just holding your waist; his fingers were clawing into your skin, his knuckles white as he fought to keep from throwing you off and taking the lead back. His eyes were wide and dark, completely fixed on you, tracking the wild tangle of your hair and the slick sheen of sweat on your collarbones.

The friction between you was blistering, a chaotic, unsparing rhythm that echoed through the quiet cabin. The cliff was looming, sharp and sudden for both of you. You could feel the tight, electric coils of your own release winding up deep behind your navel, matching the frantic, shallow pace of his breathing.

"Roy," you gasped, your voice a fractured, undone thing in the dark. "Roy, I'm—"

"I know," he choked out, his jaw locked, the cords in his neck standing out like iron cables.

He didn't let you finish. With a sudden, explosive burst of his hidden strength, Roy's hands gripped your hips and hoisted you slightly, shifting your weight just enough so he could drive upward with a brutal, unyielding force. He hit the deepest, most sensitive spot inside you, and the world simply shattered.

inside. At the exact same fraction of a second, the heavy coil inside Roy snapped completely. He let out a raw, deafening growl—a sound that belonged more to a wild predator than a man—and surged up into you one last time, emptying himself entirely, spilling his thick, burning warmth deep inside you.

The sheer force of it left you both breathless, collapsing forward until your chest hit his. You buried your face in the hollow of his neck, your heart hammering a frantic, chaotic rhythm against his skin while he wrapped his massive arms around you, locking you down against him as his body shuddered through the last remaining waves of his release.

For a long time, the only sound in the shack was the heavy, ragged sound of your breathing, slowly evening out against the cold mountain air outside.

Slowly, Roy’s hand came up, his rough fingers gently stroking the damp hair away from your forehead. He pulled back just an inch, enough to look down at you in the fading candlelight. The dangerous, dark look was gone, replaced by that rare, devastating smile that crinkled the corners of his striking blue eyes.

He glanced over at the mattress where his battered Stetson had fallen, then looked back up at your flushed, triumphant face.