BASIC TRAINING — CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WARNINGS — Rough sex, marking (hickeys/bruises), manhandling, “sir” kink, explicit sexual content, emotional intensity, power imbalance, possessive behavior, family conflict, 18+ only.
You’ve never defied your dad before. Not like this. Not with your heart pounding like a war drum, your hands shaking as you slip out of your room at midnight, your sandals silent on the concrete. The base is asleep, the air heavy with heat and the distant hum of generators, but you feel awake, alive, like you’re running toward something inevitable. Your dad’s words echo in your head—“You’re coming with me. You’re done here.”—and they burn, sharp and bitter, because he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t know you’re not his little girl anymore. You’re Rafe’s.
You’re at his bunk before you can second-guess yourself, your knock barely a tap against the doorframe. The curtain parts, and Rafe’s there, his dog tags glinting in the dim light, his cargo pants low on his hips, his chest bare. His eyes are dark, heavy with something that makes your stomach twist—anger, want, desperation. He doesn’t say anything, just grabs your wrist and pulls you inside, the curtain falling shut like a guillotine.
“You’re out of your damn mind, sunshine,” he says, voice low and rough, his hands already on your waist, pulling you against him. “Your dad’s gonna have my head for this.”
“I don’t care,” you say, and it’s the truth, raw and reckless, spilling out of you like blood. “I told him I’m not leaving you. I meant it.”
He freezes, just for a second, his hands tightening on your hips, his eyes searching yours like he’s looking for a lie. But there’s none to find, and he sees it, because his mouth crashes into yours, hard and desperate, like he’s trying to burn you into his skin. You kiss him back, your hands fisting his tags, pulling him closer, because you need this, need him, need to prove you’re his in a way no one can take away.
“You’re mine,” he growls against your lips, his hands rough, sliding under your sundress, bunching the fabric around your waist. “You get that, right? You defy him, you sneak out, you’re choosing me. No going back.”
“I know,” you whisper, your voice trembling but sure, your hands gripping his shoulders, his skin hot under your fingers. “I want you, Rafe. All of you.”
He groans, a low, brutal sound, and lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carries you to his bunk. It’s not gentle, not like the first time, when he talked you through it, kissed your tears away. This is different—raw, urgent, like a battle. He drops you onto the mattress, the springs creaking, and climbs over you, his weight heavy, pinning you down. His hands are everywhere—your thighs, your hips, your throat—marking you, claiming you, like he’s fighting a war and you’re the battlefield.
“Say it,” he says, his voice rough, almost feral, his lips brushing your ear. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” you gasp, your nails digging into his back, your body arching into his. “I’m yours, Rafe.”
He growls, low and possessive, and tears your panties off, the fabric ripping under his hands. You flinch, but it’s not fear—it’s want, hot and overwhelming, because you’ve never seen him like this, so unhinged, so desperate. He’s not gentle tonight, not careful. His hands grip your thighs, spreading them wide, bruising, and you whimper, your body trembling under his touch.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he mutters, his mouth on your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, leaving marks you know won’t fade by morning. “So fucking perfect, and all mine. You don’t know what you’ve done, sunshine, choosing me like this.”
You’re crying now, not from pain but from the intensity, the way he’s consuming you, body and soul. His hands are rough, manhandling you, flipping you onto your stomach with a grunt, his fingers digging into your hips as he pulls you up. “On your knees,” he says, voice sharp, commanding, and you obey, because it’s Rafe, and you’d do anything for him.
He’s behind you, his hands gripping your hips, his body pressed against yours, hot and heavy. “Call me sir,” he says, voice low, dangerous, his lips brushing your spine. “Say it.”
“Yes, sir,” you whisper, your voice shaking, your face pressed into the pillow, and he groans, a sound so raw it makes you shiver.
“Good girl,” he says, and then he’s inside you, hard and deep, no warning, no gentleness, just brutal, desperate need. You cry out, your hands fisting the blanket, your body rocking with the force of him. It’s rough, overwhelming, his hips snapping against yours, his hands bruising your skin, marking you in places no one will see but him.
“You feel that?” he growls, his hand fisting your hair, pulling your head back just enough to make you gasp. “That’s me, sunshine. That’s what you chose. You’re mine now, every fucking inch of you.”
“Yes, sir,” you sob, your voice muffled against the pillow, your body trembling as he takes you, hard and unrelenting, like he’s fighting to keep you, to make you his forever. His hand slides to your throat, not choking, just holding, his thumb brushing your pulse, and you feel it—the ownership, the way he’s claiming every part of you.
“You’re so fucking tight,” he mutters, his voice ragged, his thrusts brutal, desperate. “So perfect, so mine. Gonna mark you up, baby, so everyone knows. So your dad knows.”
You whimper, your body shaking, the pleasure building, sharp and overwhelming, because it’s not just sex—it’s war, it’s rebellion, it’s everything you’ve been fighting for. He’s marking you, his teeth on your shoulder, his hands bruising your hips, and you want it, want the proof, want the world to know you’re his.
“Say it again,” he demands, his hand slapping your hip, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make you gasp. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours, sir,” you sob, your voice breaking, your body arching into him, chasing the release that’s so close, so intense it scares you. “I’m yours, Rafe, please—”
He groans, his thrusts stuttering, his hand tightening on your throat. “Come for me,” he says, voice low and commanding, his fingers finding your clit, rough and precise. “Come for your sir, sunshine. Show me you’re mine.”
You shatter, your body convulsing, your vision blurring, a scream tearing from your throat that he muffles with his hand, pressing it over your mouth. It’s too much, too intense, but you’re his, completely his, and you come apart under him, your body shaking, your nails digging into the mattress. He follows you, his thrusts hard and desperate, spilling inside you with a groan that’s half your name, half a curse.
For a moment, you’re both still, your breaths ragged, his weight heavy on your back, his hands still gripping your hips. Then he pulls out, slow and careful, and you whimper at the loss, your body spent, marked, his. He flips you onto your back, gentle now, and crawls over you, his lips brushing your forehead, your cheeks, your lips.
“You okay, sunshine?” he asks, voice soft but still rough, his hands stroking your hair, your sides, soothing the bruises he left. “Did I hurt you?”
You shake your head, tears slipping down your cheeks, because it wasn’t pain, not really—it was everything, too much, too perfect. “I’m okay,” you whisper, your voice hoarse, your hands reaching for him, needing him close. “I’m yours.”
He smiles, soft and reverent, and pulls you into his arms, his blanket draped over you both. “Yeah, you are,” he murmurs, his lips on your temple, his fingers tracing the marks on your skin. “My good girl. My sunshine.”
You fall asleep like that, curled against him, his tags cool against your chest, his breath steady in your ear. You know you’ve crossed a line, defied your dad, broken every rule. You know the base is watching, whispering, judging. You know your dad’s fury is waiting, a storm that’ll break when he finds out you didn’t go home, didn’t obey.
But you don’t care.
You’re Rafe’s, and he’s yours, and this—his hands, his marks, his voice calling you his—is worth everything.
You don’t write in your notebook that night. You don’t need to. The truth is written on your skin, in the bruises, the marks, the way you feel him, even now, in every aching inch of you.
You’re his.
And you’re not going back.
