Lewdness I Like

🂱

It’s warm. The warm press of a leg that’s not yours against one that is. You wish you didn’t crave the touch - you wish you didn’t crave any touch, but here you are.

“Sergeant!” Simon barks at you.

Right. The mission. You need to get your shit together.

“On it, LT.” You somehow get out, your head floating somewhere it shouldn’t on a mission this high stakes.

You head towards the East Wing of the decrepit - probably hazardous - building the task force was sent to this time. Yellow, peeling wallpaper surrounded you, leading towards a maze of office rooms and weirdly assorted furniture. it smelled of…eggs? Not the time to be hungry girl.

Eggs?

Your com cuts through its near constant static to Simon’s heavy breathing. You thought the base was abandoned? Did he find someone? Did someone find him?

“There’s a leak,” his gruff voice cuts through. A leak? Like…gas? “Location, now.”

You blink.

“East Wing, weird office, approximately 50 ft from the Log Room.”

You blink again.

Warmth.

“I need you to follow my every step until we get into that room.” You feel his breath cover your neck before the words fully register. Oh, okay. You feel his gloved hands slide around your waist after you’ve stared ahead a moment too long.

Right - the mission.

You force your feet to follow the path to the Log Room - you know this by heart, you studied it for weeks.

Left. Right. Left. Step over the cords. Left. Right. Left. Right. Simons’ hands clench tighter around your waist as footsteps register. Left. Right. Footsteps?

“Get in th’ room and go left.” Simons practically breathes into your ear.

The dust hits you first, the permanent mildew stains second. You kick away piles of old computer papers and years of dust bunnies to comfortably squeeze into the corner Simon guided you to. You take a moment to catalogue the potential danger you two are in - the footsteps are continuing to surround you, but they’re obviously still a floor above. You may have time to do this.

You take a look at Simon just as he turns to check if you’d made it. You nod. He signs ‘I’ll watch’. You nod. And inhale.

Focus.

“Okay,” you whisper inaudible to yourself. You grab the tools needed - stored safely on your Tac-Vest. “Time to do the fun part.”

What you were hired for - the best hacker on this side of the harbor. Price sought you out after one of your last schemes made national media - a rookie mistake - but one that gave you the most phenomenal job a girl could dream of. Of course, you had to be trained and ripped apart to prove yourself to the team (in your mind), but over these last 3 years you’ve done nothing but work your ass off to prove it over and over again.

So yeah - this is slight work. Could be better if you couldn’t feel Simon Riley’s fucking stare on you.

You pop the cover off of the control panel and get to work. Ghost’s slightly shuffling outside the door, no doubt getting impatient. He knows your rhythm by now though, so it can’t be too bad.

Huh. These wires look fairly fresh compared to the ancient computers collecting dust to your left. You warily continue accessing the board. Maybe they replaced these recently? But why? You finally get through enough layers of dust to access the chip you were after. After you remove it you notice a piece that’s definitely not supposed to be there, a sticker almost? You quickly peel it off and find…another chip.

Oh. They were protecting something.

You feel your feet dragging before you hear the alarm screeching in your ears. Ghost’s hand is wrapped firmly around the back of your gear, pulling you in a direction you can’t exactly decipher at the moment.

The closet - get to you trip slightly over those fucking cords the closet. East Wing, 30ft from Log Room. Are you saying this aloud? You hope so.

You hear a door whish open and your body being placed upright in possibly the smallest space you’ve ever stepped foot in.

Warmth.

“Oh.” You whisper.

Ghost has silently positioned the faux wall/door back into position before you’ve realized the proximity of his body to yours. His front pressed to yours, his body providing heat you haven’t felt so close in many, many years. Embarrassingly enough, the heat has made your brain register safety in a situation it certainly shouldn’t. The slack in your knees goes unnoticed entirely due to Ghosts body essentially holding you up.

“Hi.” You breathe. What a mistake. Your eyes begin to shut as the dust bunnies in the room make their way to your nose, a sneeze on the tip of your tongue, shi-

Ghosts hand wraps itself around your mouth, the sneeze hardly audible over his thick gloves. Shit. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the smirk on his face combined with the mortification of screwing up the mission bleeds onto your cheeks, flushing them an undoubtedly rosy shade.

The footsteps fall harder, getting closer until they’re directly outside of the makeshift closet you’d shove yourselves into. They lead right to the door, until they continue their path to the Log Room. Whew.

Simon’s thigh somehow finds itself nudged between yours in the chaos. Your eyes widen as you involuntarily squeeze him into yourself. You pulse. His grin deepens.

“Hi, bunny.” He breathes into your mouth.

🂱

You hear the pop of the cap before it’s placed on the wood table in front of you.

“4 beers and a Daniel’s with a fresh coke for bunny.” Gaz boasts broadly as he approaches the booth. You’d found yourselves at Malone’s, as always on a mission like today’s. It was somehow a huge success, Gaz and Soap clearing the North Towers as you and Ghost left the East Wing as quickly as you could - much to your chagrin.

“Proud of ya, team,” Price grins. “This one’s been a long time coming. Couldn’t be happier. Now drink you brutes.”

The four men hoot and holler while you giggle slightly into your whiskey. It had been a good one - you could say that. You’ve definitely seen worse.

You know he’s looking before you can even register to turn your head. Simon Riley and his damn staring problem.

“What’s y’r problem Ghostie?” You hiccup. You and Soap may have pre-gamed quite a bit before heading out.

“What’s tha’ bunny?” Ghost grins. Him and his stupid grin.

“You stare.” You grit out.

“Oh, do I?” He’s loving this, the bastard. You sigh. Maybe sulking is your best answer.

“Yes, you do. What’d I do t’ ya?” You pout slightly. He raises his hand to wipe your hair out of your eyes.

“Can I tell you a secret?” He whispers as he leans in close. Your breath hitches as you glance down at his lips through the mask. You always wondered how they’d taste on nights like these. Beer? Or the cherries he steals out of your Jack and Coke?

“Maybe both,” he laughs against your lips. Well, maybe not against, but with how little you’ve been touched in these last few years he damn well may have been. He heard that?

“Ukraine. August ‘23.”

The mission you’d completely bombed. Literally. The metal fragments are still buried deep into your naval - the explosion still echoing in your memory when night creeps into your room. That had been a rough one for the team.

You didn’t know the place was mined - it was your fourth, fifth mission? You were used to sitting at a desk, reviewing the many ways to bypass servers and firewalls tough enough to take down multiple CIA’s. The months of training holds nothing to common sense - see a giant ‘ant pile’? Don’t step on it. The fuck. You’ll never get rid of Kyle’s screams over the coms that nights. Your consciousness was like a frequency, in the atmosphere, then out. You could only remember slight waves of nausea and blurry grunts of pain. It was the first time you truly thought you were going to die.

You groan slightly, the shame reinventing itself into every crevice of your being. Your therapist would cringe.

“Thought I was g’nna lose ya, Bunny,” he says.

His stare lowers to your form, dressed in what you’d consider ‘risky’. The small amount of skin you’re comfortable showing, still more than the team has ever been allowed to see.

“Gotta stare at ya. Make sure y’r not g’nna vanish. Plus when it’s a view like this, how could I not?”

Oh. Oh. Your Lieutenant is flirting - you think. You also think that maybe you’re not as drunk as you should be to not remember this sentence every night forever more. You pulse.

“Oh.” You mumble, casting your gaze towards his hands. They’d saved you so many times, on so many missions. You wished they’d break the invisible walls you’d built around yourself. You wished they’d touch you.

Warmth.

Ghosts palm slides around your knee, respectfully, of course. Until it’s not. Your breath catches - whys he sliding up? That’s a little high, you haven’t felt that since 8th (?) grade, Seth Matthew’s in History - what a crazy time right? Your plans to distract yourself don’t work in the slightest as the warmth you’d been chasing for the last 3 years rushes over your body, cheeks, hands, cunt faster than you can process.

You let a whimper escape, involuntarily. Damn.

“I’ll do whatever y’ wan me to, Bunny.” He sighs. “Just please - let me stare as long as I’d like.”

a/n: part 2???

“You won’t come for a week.” 

Almost. He laughed. Loud. Nearly choked on his beer, then rolled his eyes and went back to watching the football match on the TV. 

He hasn’t laughed since. 

Not after you kneeled between his legs, took his dick in your mouth, and gave him the best head he’s probably ever had— all messy, drooly, and sloppy, just how he likes— only to stop and walk away right before he was about to finish. 

He was so gobsmacked that he couldn’t even wrap his hand around his dick to finish it himself. 

He didn’t laugh when you bounced on his dick the next night, whining, and moaning his name so loud he was scared the neighbors might hear (again)— only for you to, once again, get up and off of him after you finished, leaving his dick aching and twitching. 

“Please,” he begged, softly, quietly, embarrassed. 

“Nope,” you hummed. “You know the rules.” 

He bit back a whine as you walked away, towards the bathroom, to take a shower. 

He wouldn’t break so easily, no… he wouldn’t… at least, that's what he told himself.

Until you sent an album's worth of photos to him while he was at work. Some with you in his shirt, kneeled in front of the mirror and lifting the hem of it just enough to expose that you definitely weren’t wearing anything under it. Another completely nude, sat on the floor, with your legs spread open and a smirk on your lips. And a third, with three of your fingers dug deep into your drenched cunt, your thighs shining, and the sheets beneath you darkened with the same sticky mess you created. 

He’s not laughing now, as he races to pick up the garage before you get home from another shopping trip (for which he allowed you to use his card), tossing miscellaneous tools and parts into their rightful spots and out of the walkway. He’s soaked in sweat. The balmy, sweltering heat of the England summer has soaked through to his bones. 

The garage is spick and span, probably the cleanest it’s been since you’ve both moved in, by the time you pull into the driveway. He watches as you swing your legs out of the car. You don’t even spare him a second glance as you pull out 3 large shopping bags, one of which he recognizes is from your favorite lingerie shop. He wipes his hands down his jeans, moving forward to help you. 

“I’ve got it.” There’s no smile on your face, but there’s an undertone of amusement in your voice. 

He’s expecting you to say something else. Tell him good job. Reward him. Let him fill your pussy, your throat— whatever. But you just walk by, hips swaying slightly as you enter the house. 

Simon stands there like an idiot. Staring around the garage like maybe he forgot to put something away. Nothing. He did what you wanted, right? His jaw clenches slightly. 

Switch!Simon who is now fed up with your little attitude. As you walk around the house in those short ass silk shorts he bought you, and a crop top that exposes the underside of your boobs every time you reach up into a kitchen cabinet. 

He sits at the couch, watching as you go through the motions of making dinner. Fists clenching and unclenching, dick already half hard under his jeans. 

Just after you’re finished chopping up the vegetables for dinner, he clears his throat. 

“Yes?” You ask, faux innocence in your tone. 

“You gonna help me with this?” He points to his crotch, leaning back into the couch. 

“Ohhh,” you smirk. “I don’t know. Should I?” 

Simon lets out a harsh sigh. 

“I’ll rephrase,” he pauses. “You’re going to get over here, and suck my cock, like a good girl.” 

You laugh. Actually laugh. 

“Or what?” 

“There’s no ‘or what’. I did what you wanted, now it’s your turn.” 

He sees the smile fall from your face at his low tone. He’s not fucking around with you, and you know it.

“Make me.” 

He’s standing before the words even register in his brain. 

“Five.” 

“Simon. You can’t be serious.”

He takes a step towards the kitchen. “Four.” 

“I’m pretty sure I’m the one in charge.” 

He scoffs out a laugh. “Three.” 

“Simon…”

“Two.”

You’re backing away from the counter now, eyeing him from across the room as his foot comes over the threshold of the kitchen. 

“One.”

You spin around quickly, making a break for the other side of the kitchen to run down the hallway. Simon’s too fast. 

You writhe in his arms as he wraps them around your waist and hoists you into the air. Labored breaths fall from your lips as you try, and fail, to break free. Simon’s dick is fully straining in his jeans. 

“Si,” you pant out as he spins you in his grip so you’re facing him, forcing your legs to wrap around his waist. 

He pushes your back into the wall of the hallway, narrowing his eyes at you as you push against his chest. 

“Give up,” he grunts out, pinning your wrists to the wall as he keeps you in place by pushing his hips into yours. “No point in fightin’ back now.” 

You whine at his grasp, still trying to wiggle free. 

“Okay,” you pant, letting your arms fall limp. “Okay. Okay. You win. Happy?” 

Simon smirks, pushing into you harder, grinding his clothed cock into your pussy. You suck in a sharp breath and your eyebrows pinch together. 

“Not quite.” 

Switch!Simon who fucks you brainless against that same wall. Jeans pushed hastily half-way down his thighs, your silk shorts shoved to the side (no surprise, you’re not wearing anything under them) as he ruts into you at an impressive tempo. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” your swears warble with his thrusts, and your nails are digging so hard into his traps he swears you’ll draw blood. 

“This what you wanted? Hm?” he grunts out, palming at your ass cheeks to keep you in place. “Didn’t want me to clean the—fuck—garage… jus’ needed me to fuck you senseless.” 

You whine and arch your back into him. He’s close. So are you. He can tell by the way you don’t answer his question, and how your eyes screw tightly shut. He slows his hips. 

“Look at me.” 

Your mouth hangs open as you pant and blink at him a few times. 

“You’re not coming,” he states. “You don’t get to.” 

You whine, trying to gyrate your hips against his and his agonizingly slow thrusts. 

“Nuh uh, uh,” he pushes his hips fully against yours, pressing you hard into the wall again. “You want me to fill this cunt?” 

You nod. 

“Words, sweetheart.” 

“Yes, Si… please, please… need your cum…” 

He thrusts slowly again. 

“Then you don’t come, got it?”

You whine again, louder this time. 

“Need you to agree, or else I’ll stop.” 

“Fine! Just please fuck me!” You nearly yell. 

Simon groans and picks up his pace again. He can feel you squeezing around him. God, he’s so fucking close. 

“Such a good little cock sleeve for me, hm? Been using me to get off all week, now it’s my turn.” 

Your hands grip at his hair as he peels you from the wall, bouncing you up and down his cock freely as you babble out incoherently. 

“Such a good boy,” you whine. 

Simon’s face twitches. 

“So, so, good f’me,” you praise. 

His knees start to feel weak as his orgasm approaches faster now. He whines, pressing his face into your chest. 

“Stop it,” he whispers out. There’s no truth in the words. He loves it. Loves being praised. Loves being your good boy. Even when he’s in charge. 

“Use me, Si,” you say breathily. “Need your cum… come in me, please.” 

The band in his lower tummy snaps. His dick twitches inside of you as a sense of euphoria fills his entire body. He thrusts a final time, stilling his hips with his cock fully sheathed inside of you as he pants against your chest. 

"You always walkin' with a stiffy?" Simon grunts, brushing past you and checking over the edge of the balcony railing. He throws you a look over his shoulder, and you bristle.

"Just enjoying the view." You reply, waiting for him to look away before your eyes trail down to the meat of his ass. Simon steps backwards, hand raising towards his headset to speak over the radio to the team.

"Bravo 0-7, in position." He mutters, and taps his side with a look. You step in beside him, before he thumps his closed fist against your arm. "Watch my back."

So you throw a glare at him, turning around to be shoulder-to-shoulder, covering the stairwell with a watchful eye as Simon keeps watch over the balcony. A staticky "heard" is given over the radio, before it falls quiet.

There's nothing but the breeze to comfort both of you; the quiet breath of your lieutenant through the fabric of his mask and the small rustle of your pants as you shift your position. Your cock is achingly hard against the fabric of your boxers, and the heat of Simon at your shoulder is not helping.

Simon is quiet, but you can tell he knows. He's probably mentally trying to keep from strangling you. You tap your shoulder lightly to his.

He gives you a look.

You give him a look back.

"Fuckin' --christ."

Simon's hand hits the front of your gear, and trails down your chest. The heavy weight finally settles on your lower stomach before reaching lower. Simon's fingers dig between your waistband and your skin, and the cool brush of his leather gloves sends a shock straight to your dick.

"...Unbuckle, Sarg." His usual composure is betrayed by his rough tone of voice, a little thicker than normal. Simon's gaze, however, is fixed straight ahead, keeping watch over the balcony railing.

"Impatient?" You grin back, already hastily clamping hands over the buckle of your utility belt. It doesn't budge for a moment, your hands jittery, and Simon exhales beside you.

"Jus' burning daylight right now," He remarks, and his hand sits heavy between your pants and skin, waiting for the belt to be loosened to travel any farther down. His fingers rap against your skin. The slightest twitch of your hips belies your own impatience. Finally, the belt falls free, the ends hitting the inside of your thighs. Simon wastes little time with his hand, heading straight down to palm over your cock.

"Ahah--!" You suck in a breath, Simon's hand groping. The leather of his gloves is smooth against your cock and you rut forward to find anything of the friction you want, but Simon's shoulder knocks against yours.

"Cut that out," He grunts, surveying over the balcony, before sending a look over his shoulder your way. "Don't want to get compromised, hm?"

It's cruel, it's cruel and you want to rut up again anyways just to send a message. But Simon's in charge here so you clamp your thighs together, head ducking when he wraps fingers around your cock slowly.

"I know, I know..." Your voice trails off when he languidly moves his hand, taunting and too light around your cock for the feeling you want. You dig your heels into the floor, and Simon gives a chuckle.

Your cock is warm to the touch, heavy in his palm and filling out his grasp. His thumb strokes slowly up and down the shaft, shifting to run over the underside of your cock. It's soft and warmth blooms in your stomach, every small motion feather-light but leaving you aching for more. Simon exhales out through his nose, and a crackle over the radio fills the space from your radios.

"Ghost, sitrep?"

"Nothing to report." Low and controlled, like he isn't currently fondling your cock in his hand. He's stood straight, shoulders relaxed, overlooking the balcony, while you're partially tipped forward, desperately trying to not grind forward.

You wait for the static to die down from Simon's intercom before gritting your teeth. Your hand shoots up to the meat of his arm, a tiny shock running up your spine when his fingers curl tighter around your cock. "C'mon, please please please let me..."

"On'a mission, Sarg." The flat of his thumb rolls over your tip, causing a mewl to leave your lips. A white-hot heat rushes down your cock.

"Make this your goddamn mission LT?" It's breathy and maybe far too hostile for Simon to make this any easier on you, but to your surprise, a shaky sigh leaves his lips. You can see the whites of his eyes, bright as day against the dark of his eye black, widening with a raised brow.

"Fuck." He grunts, and to your relief, his grip tightens. You rut forward into his grasp, cock aching and finally feeling the tight squeeze of his gloved fingers drag against your skin. It's lightning in your veins, short gasps leaving your lips with each snap of your hips as you thrust into his hand. The relief quickly gives way to blissful shock as he roughly jerks his arm in time with your movements, the meat of his hand pounding against the base of your cock, then dragging up to your tip in a spiraling grip, again and again. It's become slippery, the leather of his gloves slicker with precum smeared from your tip down the shaft of your cock.

The slapping of skin against fabric and leather cuts the air as you bend, pressing his arm into your stomach, pulling him tighter against you like it'll get you further inside his clenched grip.

"I'm close, I'm--" You yelp, fingers digging into his arm. Simon responds with a gruff, mumbled affirmation. You can feel your pulse in your ears, hips snapping forward for every delicious drag of leather down your cock. The pressure builds, warm and then blindingly hot in your stomach, and you careen forward --

His fingers squeeze tight around the base of your cock.

A shudder passes down you, hands tight around his arm, hips stuttering, uselessly bucking forward as your orgasm is denied. You think you see white spots in your vision, a broken noise coming from your lips before your legs twitch and you press harshly against Simon's side.

"Wh--at? Why?!" Your head lifts, each inhale ragged from the pressure still pooling in your stomach but out of reach. Simon's eyes meet yours, dark and pupils dilated. It's a cold shock when his fingers peel away from your cock, leaving your pants entirely and wiping off on the front of your gear.

"Got movement down on th' ground," The words are so simple, but you swear you can hear the amusement behind them. Cruel bastard. You slump forward, knees hitting the ground. Simon pats your shoulder like he's sympathetic. "You can hold on, soldier."

"No, I can't," You whine back, hand digging into your pants to replace the emptiness. Simon taps your thigh with his boot, before walking back a few paces, motioning to the stairwell.

"Got a mission. No time." He chuckles. One leather glove a bit more glossy than the other. He stares down at you, and you realize he's not going to let you finish yourself off. "C'mon. Up."

You groan, hand hastily pumping your straining cock, before defeatedly hanging your head.

The flat has no air conditioning because Simon is, at his core, a man who believes suffering builds character and that a desk fan pointed at the bed is a reasonable substitute for modern climate control.

So you've been lying on the kitchen floor in your knickers for the better part of an hour, cheek pressed to the tile, when you hear his key in the lock.

He's come home from the gym. You know this before you see him because you can smell him the second the door opens—that warm, salt-heavy wave of clean sweat and cheap deodorant losing its war and something underneath that's just him, dense and male and so fundamentally Simon that your brain whites out for a second like a computer hitting a critical error.

He rounds the corner and finds you on the floor. Doesn't blink.

"Heatstroke?"

"Almost."

"Drink water."

"No."

He steps over you to get to the fridge, and the smell of him hits you full force.

The cotton of his shirt is damp at the collar and under the arms and clinging to the small of his abnormally broad back, and when he reaches up to grab a glass from the cabinet his shirt rides up and you get a flash of his stomach, the trail of hair below his navel, and the waistband of his shorts sitting low on his hips, and something in your hindbrain just snaps.

You don't make a conscious decision. One moment you're on the floor. The next you're standing behind him with your nose pressed into the space between his shoulder blades, inhaling like you're trying to extract his soul through his t-shirt.

He goes still. Glass in hand. Tap running.

"Whot're y'doin'."

It's not a question. It's a statement—delivered all flat and measured, the voice he uses on comms when someone is doing something tactically stupid and he's deciding whether to intervene or let natural selection handle it.

"You smell good," you mutter into the damp cotton, which is—objectively insane.

He smells like a man who just did over ninety minutes of deadlifts in thirty-degree heat. He smells like exertion and iron and the ghost of this morning's soap buried under hours of sweat. He smells absolutely incredible.

"I smell like a bloody gym bag."

"Yes." You press closer.

And your arms come around his waist and your hands flatten against his stomach, feeling his abs flex, and you drag your nose up the line of his spine to the nape of his neck where his hair is damp and the scent is concentrated, thick and warm and salty, and the sound you make is embarrassing.

It's a sound that belongs in a nature documentary. The sound a wolf makes finding its mate's trail.

Simon turns the tap off. Sets the glass down.

"You're sniffin' me."

"Mm-hm."

"Haven't showered yet."

"I know." You say it like that's the point, because it is, and you feel the exact moment he processes that by the way his stomach tenses under your palms, the slow, deliberate way he turns around and looks down at you.

His pale face is flushed from the heat. Dirty blonde hair pushed back and slick at the temples. There's a bead of sweat tracking down the side of his neck and you want to lick it, and something in your expression must telegraph that thought clearly because his dark eyes go half-lidded and the corner of his mouth twitches, twisted by a scar.

"Filthy girl," he says, low and warm and not remotely disapproving.

You lose your mind a little.

It gets worse from there. Or better. Depends who you ask.

Simon comes home from a five-day exercise on Salisbury Plain—unwashed, kit bag reeking, the smell of him so potent that it practically has its own postcode—and you ambush him in the hallway before he's even got his boots off.

Shoving your face into his neck as he drops the bag before his mammoth hands come up to grip your hips, and the noise he makes is quiet and dark and satisfied, like this is exactly what he expected and he's been thinking about it for five days.

"Missed me, then," he murmurs against the top of your head, and his voice has that edge it gets—the arrogant one, the one that knows precisely what effect he has and has decided to be insufferable about it.

"Take your shirt off," you demand, tugging at the fabric impatiently.

"Haven't even locked the fuckin' door."

"Take your shirt off."

And he takes his shirt off.

And you, you're past the point of pretending this is normal when you press your face into his chest and breathe him in, the dip of his sternum, the hollow of his collarbone, the coarse hair that covers his pecs.

He smells like five days of sweat and gun oil and British weather and the base layer he hasn't changed since Tuesday, and you're making noises against his skin that are genuinely unhinged—little huffs and hums and one actual, literal whimper when you find the crease where his arm meets his torso and the scent is so strong your vision blurs.

His armpit.

You have your nose in his armpit. You are a woman with a degree and a mortgage and you are huffing your boyfriend's unwashed armpit in the hallway of your shared home and making sounds like you've found God.

Simon's hand comes up to cradle the back of your head. Not pulling you away but holding you there.

"That's rank, luv," he says, conversationally. "Haven't washed in days."

You whimper again. He feels it against his skin and his fingers tighten in your hair and his chest expands with a slow, controlled breath that you've learned to identify as Simon Riley exercising enormous restraint.

"You're proper fucked in the head," he tells you, fond as anything, sporting a throbbing erection in his tac pants.

"Your bloody fault."

You drag your mouth across to the other side. Equal opportunity. His skin is salt-warm and slightly tacky and you tongue the hollow of his throat on the way and he makes a sound—a real one, rough and low—and his hips shift forward and you feel exactly how okay he is with all of this pressing hard against your stomach.

The thing about Simon is that he's a hypocrite.

He'll call you unhinged and stand there with that flat, unimpressed expression while you bury your face in his worn hoodie that he deliberately left on the back of the sofa. He'll raise one split eyebrow when you steal his pillow on the nights he's away because it still smells like his shampoo and his skin.

But then you'll catch him.

You'll catch him pressing his nose into your hair when he thinks you're asleep, breathing slow and deep like he's memorising you. You'll catch him picking up the shirt and knickers you wore yesterday and holding them to his face for just a second before tossing it in the wash.

And you'll catch him pulling you onto his lap after his run and settling you so your face tucks against his neck, unprompted, like he's offering himself, and when you latch on and inhale he'll sigh this long, heavy, settled exhale, like a man setting down something he's been carrying for a very long time.

He likes it. He more than likes it.

He loves that you want him like this—graceless and desperate and raw.

Loves that it's not the clean, put-together version of him that gets you going, but the unwashed, sweating, human animal underneath.

He loves it because Simon Riley has spent his entire adult life being a weapon, a ghost, a thing behind a mask, and you're down on your knees in the hallway sniffing him like a deranged bloodhound because he smells like himself and that's enough to make you lose your mind.

He'll never say it. But his hand in your hair says it. The way he tilts his chin up to give you access says it. The way he comes home from a run and finds you on the sofa and stands in front of you, shirt dark with sweat, and waits—just waits expectantly—with that barely-there smirk until you reach for him.

The worst instance—the one that becomes legend, the one that Simon would murder you for if you ever told a living soul—happens on a Saturday afternoon.

He's been out on a long run. It's hot again. He comes through the door in shorts and a vest that's soaked through, and he's flushed and breathing hard, and you're sitting on the kitchen counter eating an apple and you just stop chewing, eyes big. Mid-bite. Like a prey animal that's just spotted a predator.

Your eyes drop from his face to his chest to the dark trail of hair disappearing into the waistband of his running shorts, and then lower, to where the thin material is clinging with sweat and leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination, and your brain produces a single, coherent thought:

I need to put my face there.

Simon follows your gaze. Looks down at himself. Looks back at you.

"No."

"I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have'ta. I can hear ya bloody thinkin'." He grabs a cold water bottle. Takes a long drink. A drop escapes down his jaw and tracks along his throat. "The answer's no. I'm disgustin'."

You put the apple down.

"I will literally get on my knees right now, Si."

He chokes on the water. Actually coughs—Lieutenant Simon Riley, the man who has been waterboarded and didn't flinch—and when he recovers, his eyes are dark and his voice is rougher than it was ten seconds ago.

"You're a fuckin' menace, luv."

"And you fucking love it."

He stares at you. You stare back, unblinking. The kitchen is very quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the sound of your shared dignity circling the drain.

He sets the water bottle down. Leans back against the opposite counter. Spreads his stance—just slightly, just enough—and the look he gives you is the most arrogant, self-satisfied, obscene thing you've ever seen on a human face. The whore.

"Come here, then."

You have never moved faster in your life.

You slide off the counter and cross the kitchen in two steps, and then you're on your knees on the tile in front of him, and he's looking down at you with that heavy-lidded expression that's half disbelief and half want—raw and dark and barely controlled.

"Christ," he mutters, and his hand comes up to cup the side of your face, thumb dragging across your cheekbone. "Fuckin' look at you."

You nuzzle into the front of his shorts before he can say anything else. Press your open, wet mouth against the shape of him through the thin, sweat-damp material, and the sound he makes—low, involuntary, and punched out of his chest—sends a hot pulse of satisfaction straight through you.

He's already half-hard and you can smell him here, concentrated and musky and so overwhelmingly male that your eyes flutter shut and you moan against the fabric like you've been starving for it.

"Fuck." His hand slides into your hair. Not pushing, not yet. Just there. "You're really goin' to—"

You tug his shorts down. He helps, lifts his hips off the counter just enough, and then there's nothing between you and the thick, flushed length of him, and the scent hits you unfiltered. Skin and salt and the dark, heady musk of sweat pooled in the crease of his thick thigh, and you bury your nose there first, dragging your tongue along the join of his hip and his leg, tasting the salt on his skin, lapping it up like it's something precious.

"Jesus." His thigh tenses against your cheek. His fingers tighten in your hair. "That's—You're actually—"

You lick a broad, flat stripe up the underside of his cock, base to tip, and his sentence dies in his throat when you slowly stroke his foreskin back, revealing his glistening tip.

He tastes like sweat and skin and Simon, bitter-salt and warm, and you take the head into your mouth with a groan that vibrates through him and makes his hips jerk forward. You feel the twitch of restraint in his grip, how he stops himself from thrusting, and you reach up and grab his wrist and pull, giving him permission.

He swears. Low and filthy and barely audible.

You take him deeper. Relax your throat and let him slide heavy over your tongue, and you can taste every inch of him. The clean salt of fresh sweat, the musk that clings to the coarse hair at his base when you press your nose into it, the slick of pre-come that you chase with your tongue and swallow without hesitation.

And you're sloppy about it. Graceless. Drooling and gagging and moaning around him like you're the one getting something out of this, and the thing is—you are. Your thighs are pressed together and you're grinding against nothing and you're so wet it's obscene, all from the taste and smell of his unwashed, post-run, sweat-soaked body filling your mouth and bursting on your tastebuds.

"Look at me," he rasps, and when you drag your eyes up the length of his body—his clenched stomach, his heaving chest, the dark flush spreading across his collarbones—his expression nearly undoes you. It's wrecked.

The arrogance is still there but it's cracked open, underlaid with something raw and desperate that Simon Riley does not let anyone see, ever, and his chiseled jaw is tight and his lips are parted and he's watching you with the kind of focus he usually reserves for a scope.

"Fuckin' perfect," he grits out. "Taking me so—fuck—so well, that's it—"

You hollow your cheeks and suck, hard, and his head drops back against the cabinet with a dull thud. His hips stutter forward, once, twice, and you feel the tension coiling in his thighs, the tremor in his hand where it's fisted in your hair, and you pull back just enough to tongue at the slit, taste the fresh salt of him leaking onto your tongue, then swallow him down again as deep as you can take him.

He comes with a groan that sounds like it's ripped out of him—low and broken and long, and his hand holds you steady while his hips pulse forward and you swallow every drop of it, hot and salty on the back of your tongue, and you keep swallowing, keep licking him through it until his thigh is shaking against your cheek and his grip in your hair softens from holding to cradling and the sound he's making is just breath—ragged, shattered breath.

You pull off slowly. Press one last, open-mouthed kiss to the crease of his thigh, tasting the sweat still cooling there. Look up at him.

He looks properly ruined. Chest heaving, eyes half-closed, lips bitten red. And he looks down at you on your knees on his kitchen floor with your swollen mouth and your wild eyes, and the corner of his lips curves into something that's too undone to be a smirk.

"C'mere," he murmurs, and pulls you up into his lap on the floor.

And later—much later, after you've done things on the kitchen floor that would get you both banned from polite society—he's lying on his back on the tile with you draped across his chest, both of you disgusting, and he's running his fingers through your hair with this idle, lazy contentment that he only ever shows when it's just the two of you.

"You're absolutely mental, woman," he deadpans. "You're aware, yeah?"

"You literally invited me."

He clicks his tongue. "Didn't say I was complainin'."

Then his calloused hand drifts down your back, and he pulls you closer. His nose presses into your temple and he inhales slow, deliberate, tasting the smell of your sweat and his sweat and the two of them mingled together—and the rumble in his chest when he exhales is so deep that you practically feel it in your teeth.

"Good girl," he says quietly, into your hair. "Fuckin' feral, but good."

You’d had your fair share of lovers and experienced more than a good deal of fun. With everyone in the past, climax came the same way, every single time: clitoral stimulation, and clitoral stimulation alone.

By this point in your life, you suspected your g-spot was probably just a figment of your imagination, no more real than Atlantis, Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.

That was, until, you met your boyfriend, Simon.

And things had only been official for a week.

You and him had fooled around a handful of times—made love, as he called it, and kissed and cuddled and occasionally dry-humped until the two of you were both panting, groaning messes—but all of this was new. Simon was still learning you, as you were him.

He finished between your tits. You came on his tongue. He fingered you to the point of tears, and you learned how to touch his sac just right to get him to blow his load in seconds. On this night in particular, you were fucking missionary, and holding hands while you did.

Lovesick puppies, Price would say. Neither one of you seemed able to unglue your lips or unlace your fingers or keep your hips from colliding again and again and again in frantic search of the other’s furthest depths. You were perfectly wrapped up, with no desire to move

Except, you needed to reach down between your bodies to actually get off. That was a minor detail.

You didn’t think the man above you would mind if you moved your touch from his, but then that grip tightened the second you tried pulling away.

“Keep it there, lovie. Like holding you like this,” he said.

You enjoyed it, too. It was intimate, and sweet, and with your hands pinned on either side of you, locked securely in his, you felt safe. You just couldn’t finish.

“But I…I need to come,” you whispered against him. You rolled your hips and felt his cock twitch inside you.

Simon grunted, then swallowed. Nodded slowly.

“Yeah. I’ll get you there. Feel this?”

He slid deeper for emphasis.

You didn’t.

You rarely did, or at least not in the way you figured you were supposed to get when something pressed there.

“I think…sort of, yeah,” you hedged your answer.

Don’t bruise his ego, don’t hurt his feelings.

This is all on me, Si, I promise it’s not you.

Cutting in over your thoughts, Simon moved swiftly. Took your hips in his big, strong hands, lifted up, and plunged his cock to the hilt. The girth of him was enough to knock the air out of your lungs, and you felt your walls stretch, sting, and weep sweet liquid warmth around that intrusion. You moaned.

“Better?” The man’s question was simple.

Before you could answer it, he was sliding a pillow underneath your backside. Sawing his long, thick, leaking cock in and out of you, he reached a new spot.

You made a face, feeling good from that but…strange.

Simon snatched your hands up again and planted them beside your head on the mattress. He thrusted steadily. He peppered kisses all over your face and your neck while the bed frame squeaked in time, and you had to dig your heels into his ass to ground yourself.

“Talk to me, baby. Can’t make it better if you don’t.”

“I—I know, I just can’t—”

At the same time, Simon tilted your hips slightly once more, and the tip of his cock kissed something soft and wet and dizzyingly pleasurable inside your body. A loud, embarrassing cry slipped out between your lips.

You wanted to clap a hand over your mouth, hating the way you’d just sounded, but your fingers were stuck to his. Simon grinned down at you, toothy and approving.

“Can’t do what, now, darlin’?”

The warm, bulbous head of his cock had found its mark, and he just kept prodding that spot, like it entertained him to do it. The fingers laced between your own constricted their grip even more, and Simon leaned down to kiss you while his cock carved a mind-numbing path. In between kisses, he praised you.

“That’s my girl. She’s likin’ it now, isn’t she?”

“Feel good when my cock hits that spot?”

“Your pussy’s fuckin’ soakin’ me, baby.”

But still, somehow, it just wasn’t quite enough.

Maybe you’d never found that place after all.

This was where most men gave up—after a few good minutes of fucking when their balls had gotten to be as swollen as stones and their bodies were aching for release, more often than not, they’d go off chasing their own high. That was when you usually started rubbing your clit, or waited for your partner to finish so they could get you off with their tongue or something.

You hated to feel like a burden, and you really despised the thought of being the reason your sweet Simon couldn’t get to orgasm. So you squirmed again.

Straining to reach down, to try and touch yourself, you whimpered, “Si, please, it just—it takes me too long—”

“Good thing we’ve got all night,” Simon replied bluntly.

Then, once again, he twisted your bodies like you were as soft and malleable as putty in his hands, and this time, he hitched one of your legs around his hip, high.

With one slow-rolling thrust and an audibly squelching sound, Simon’s cock stretched your hole to maximum capacity, and then a little more. Your juices leaked down his shaft, aiding the slide, and he stabbed in a few shallow strokes. Probing. Testing the waters, as if he were trying to find something hidden inside you.

You sucked in a breath. Simon’s gaze slid to yours.

“Let’s find that precious spot, lovie. Easy, now.”

Gently coaxing your body open, he drove a slow, measured pace. He split your cunt like it was the easiest thing in the world, delving within your wet, velvety heat to tease every contour and crevice of your pussy. His tip leaked precome. His balls glistened in your arousal and landed with the gentlest plap, plap, plaps while he explored your insides with his member.

It really was as simple as that, nothing more and nothing less than poking around. Having patience.

“S-Si,” you stammered, nose wrinkling slightly.

“What’s’at, baby? Got something to tell me?”

Like a teacher, almost, he pressed for more.

Like his cock was showing you something new about your body but he needed your help to tell him just how and where to find it, Simon took care to be kind. He smoothed a hand over the crown of your head and then cradled the back of it, one massive set of fingers splayed out against your skull and engulfing it wholly.

He still held onto your other hand tight.

Your cunt pulsed. Ached. Fluttered around him.

Stuffed to the brim, you had only to feel, and murmur:

“Higher.”

“Higher?”

“Um, to the…to the left.”

Simon tilted his hips left.

Yes.

That was just it. So close.

Almost…

Or, maybe…

“Maybe it just…isn’t there,” you huffed out, deflating. “Know you’re trying so hard, baby, but I think I can’t—”

Then Simon hit the same spot as before, only higher.

Just like you’d told him: to the left, and then…

“Oh, fuck,” you cursed. “Oh, fuckfuckfuck.”

The grin above you stretched even wider.

“There, lovie?” Simon goaded you on.

“Right there.” You nodded furiously.

A wave of pleasure swept through your limbs, from your core down to the soles of your feet. Your toes curled, and you squeaked, feeling Simon’s cock graze that soft, spongy, sensitive place—except he’d pushed in deeper. The sensation made your eyes roll back.

“Little dove doesn’t mind my pokin’ after all, huh?” Simon’s words were a tease, but you heard a strain in them, too. The second you were caught in the throes of real pleasure, your cunt must’ve clamped like a vice.

“Keep…keep pokin’, Si,” you choked out. “I like it.”

Your lover kept at it—poking from the inside.

The routine almost felt like losing your virginity all over again, together. Simon cradled your head, told you how good you were doing, how sweet you were for him, and you whimpered under his hold. Squirmed and clung to him for dear life, then kissed him feverishly.

Simon’s mouth was hard and hungry, his thrusts deep. His cock throbbed within the wet, clenching confines of your pussy, and he seemed to be going wild at the feeling. With the idea that he was driving you wild, too.

You realized as much when he whispered it to you.

“Could lose my bloody mind when you’re like this—” Another sharp, labored breath. Another shudder passing through his body when your insides squeezed. “—so why didn’t you talk? Ask for what you needed?”

Your voice was small. “Didn’t wanna be a bother.”

Your eyes were locked with Simon’s, and in his irises, you caught a shade of concern. It flared, hot as anything, then mixed with disbelief. Disappointment.

“Don’t be angry, Si, I—” you started, hurried.

“‘M’not.” Simon blinked. But he gritted his teeth, and he withdrew his cock until the head was bumping and teasing between your folds, then he shook his head. “It’s those fuckin’ pricks who should be sorry, yeah?”

The ones that you’d been with before.

You wanted to protest, insist that you were at least partly to blame, but you never got the opportunity.

Simon was back inside you in a blink.

Hitting that same spot again, and again, and again.

He grinned, the tic of a muscle in his jaw telling you that he was less amused this time around, but proud.

Vindicated.

“Well. It’s not like they’re ever gettin’ a chance in between these pretty legs again, are they, lovie?”

You nodded in agreement.

You smiled back at him, only to have that gentle curve falter a little when you felt Simon’s thrusts accelerate.

“Only thing that’s gonna touch this spot other’n my cock is my seed, splatterin’ all over your walls, right?”

When he gave a playful nip to your lower lip and squeezed your hand tighter, you knew that he meant it. The man had plunged so deep inside you that his pubic bone was now grinding against your skin, and the rest of him was buried. His balls, all full and warm and heavy with his release, rested firmly in your cleft.

And the steady, measured strokes of his cock landed with near-surgical precision on the G-spot you’d convinced yourself up until tonight didn’t exist.

Simon beamed. You were overcome with ecstasy.

“This it, lovie? This spot right ‘ere?” he cooed.

His cock bobbed against that gummy and indescribably dizzying place, causing your last moan to morph into something more akin to a shriek.

You nodded your head: “Y-Yes. Yes.”

“Feel good when I hit it?”

“Fucking perfect, Si.”

You sighed when the man bottomed out for what felt like the millionth time, and the pleasure never waned. He felt just as good now as he did when he first got in.

“Yeah? Gonna come on my cock then, pretty girl?”

“Yeah. I’m— I’m so close.”

“Go on then, love.”

And, shortly, you did.

Maybe three, four, five more stabs of his cock to your most precious, intimate place and you were unraveling beneath him, stars bursting in your line of vision. It seemed dramatic to say, but that was really what it came to—your mouth hanging open, eyes wide, gaze peering into Simon’s while he fucked you through the most intense orgasm of your life. You clung to him, and your walls spasmed again and again and again, milking the man’s release in the next few seconds. Simon shuddered and grit his teeth as he unloaded a thick, gooey load inside, dousing that spongy, body-numbing spot and then some. The two of you moaned in unison.

Your body was boneless, your head a hazy mess.

It took several seconds for your conscious mind to come back online fully, and when it did, Simon was leaning in again and planting kisses along your face.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, breath fanning hot across your skin. “My perfect girl. You did so good.”

You smiled and caught his mouth for a proper kiss.

“Thank you,” you murmured against him.

Then Simon squeezed your hand—the one he’d been holding this entire time. He lifted it gently, like he was afraid too rough of a movement might split you in two.

He turned your wrist and kissed the back of your hand, eyes locked on yours and expression soft while he did.