My Thoughts

You explored in the shadows, smelling his cologne, peeking inside of his shower to see if there was another woman’s shampoo where yours used to be.

So what if there was? He wasn’t your man. Not anymore.

But here you were. Waiting. Hunting him like prey. The reality was that you couldn’t get him out of your mind. You’d played aloof, telling him you needed to go your own way. You wouldn’t be waiting, doe-eyed for him to turn up when he felt like it, smelling like sand and blood and mistakes. You didn’t need to be constantly reminded of a mission gone bad, spoiled and stinking until you could smell it rotting in between the silences between your clipped dialogue. A fresh grave.

No. You had a life to live. Adventures of your own. You needed more. At least… that’s what you said.

For months, you had convinced yourself of this truth. You had tried your best to replace him with a bigger, better, younger model. And another. And another. But, none of them quite lived up to your expectations. You wanted them to have a tighter grip. A bigger cock. A meaner bite. They were all too soft. Too weak. You were sick of dealing with these lesser demons; you needed your devil back for more reasons than one.

You heard the door turn. He hadn’t even tried the lock. He knew you were here.

Good, you thought. Better be ready for me, John.

You creeped around the corner of the hall, watching him move through the kitchen, flipping on the lights and moving around mountains of his mail. He was dressed in his uniform, and you could smell his scent from here. It was everything you hated. It was petrol and steel, sand and gunpowder. You wanted to put your nose in his armpit. You wanted his sweat. You wanted to smell the cigars and whisky on his breath. You wanted to bury your face in his crotch and let his pheromones coat your senses until you were drunk on him, to have his hands pawing at your skin, his fingertips digging into your fat deep enough to touch bone.

He tossed his keys on the countertop in a clatter and spoke to you over his shoulder,

“I’ll give you one chance to get the fuck out of my house,” John snarled, pulling his pistol from the back of his belt, “I’ll even count to three. One… Two…”

“Three,” you spoke over him, emerging from the dark corner of the room, stepping with a tight certainty on his hardwood floors, secretly hoping your stilettos were leaving ruts in the grain.

He locked onto you, watching as you materialized in his den, his eyes raking up your legs as they stepped through the slit in your black trenchcoat. You let the collar of it fall open, revealing your nearly bare chest and shoulders, showing off your skin in the blue dark of the room. You let your lips curl into a soft smile, stained red and pouting, turning your chin up at him in challenge.

“Charlie…” He sighed, but he didn’t disengage his weapon just yet, “What are you doin’ here, love?”

“Same thing I always do, baby,” you furrowed your brow as if you were confused by his question.

“And what’s that?” He kept his eyes trained on you, watching your every move as you crossed the room.

“Whatever…” You pulled off one of your leather gloves and let it fall to the floor with a soft pop, “... the fuck…” Then, the other glove, “... I want.”

“I just got back from Sakhra. I don’t have time for your games, Charlie,” his voice was edged with exhaustion, but he was all bark no bite. And you needed the bite.

“You know that’s not my name, John,” you purred as you stepped into his space, reaching out with your bare hand and running it across his mountainous chest, then down his arm, reaching for the hand that was clutched around his gun, “Not anymore.”

He disengaged the pistol as you moved your body closer to him, and you heard the slide lock click softly into place as he pushed it back, flipping his thumb over the safety. You wrapped your hands around his huge paw, dipping your finger across his trigger finger, tracing his knuckles as you mirrored his grip.

“I know,” John snarled quietly as he looked down at you. Even in your heels, you were no match for his towering height, “And I know that the last time you were in my bloody kitchen, you were packin’ your bags. Had somewhere better to be. Said…” He used his free hand to dip into the open collar of your trench, pulling it open to reveal more of what lay beneath, “Said you were done.”

You helped him undress you, pulling the belt away and undoing the knot with a quick tug, letting the coat flutter open, showing off your lacy lingerie underneath. You were wearing black on black on black. Your heels, your fishnets, your negligee; all of it was expensive and new and just for him. It was exactly what he wanted: something pretty to rip to shreds. Something soft to sink his teeth into.

“I lied,” you confessed, watching the way his eyes razed over you like a fire to a field, inspecting you, studying you like a memory he’d forgotten, “I don’t know how to be done with you.”

It was a rare moment of vulnerability for you. You didn’t even know if he would hear the truth in your timbre or if he would assume it was just another line as usual. The fearful side of your soul hoped it was the latter, but your man was smart. He saw through your act.

“Where did you go?” John whispered, reaching out slowly with his huge hand to cup your breast through the black lace.

You didn’t answer him, choosing instead to get lost in his touch. The heat of his forefinger and thumb against your tight nipple made your breath catch in your throat. Then, his pale eyes darted back up to your face, locking you in place with his cruel stare, and he twisted his hand, pinching you ruthlessly, hard enough for you to reach up and grab his wrist as he crafted pain from your pleasure. He spoke with all of his sharp, straight teeth flashing as he raised his voice at you, keeping his sinister grasp on your sensitive breast,

“Where? Who were you with?” He backed you up into the counter. Your trench fell off of your shoulders and into the crook of your elbow, trapping your arms, “You left me here after that bloody mission… All this time, I thought… Thought you blamed me… That I was –” He eased up on his grip, making you sigh in relief.

“It wasn't your fault, John,” you grabbed him by his scruffy chin and forced him to meet your eyes, “I never blamed you. Not once.”

He pulled his face from your hands and took a step back. The dim light from his stove hood cast an ethereal, shadowless glow over his skin. He was bathed in a soft, golden wash of neither light nor darkness, just bright enough for you to witness him remembering your shared past, for the scenes to play out behind his eyes.

You were in Haditha, running point for Charlie Team as the CIA liaison for counter intelligence, trying your damnedest to stop a nuclear war before it started. You had been in talks for days and days, desperate to bring the Urzikstani Liberation Force to the negotiation table. But, after Bravo Team began to apply pressure to Makarov, he made sure the ULF had no reason to seek peace. Your once-productive discussions turned ugly, and you were back to square one. By the time Kate told you to pull out, it was too late.

Captain John Price had ties to the ULF leader, Farah Karim, and his decisions to work with her meant that all of your hard work turned into a bloodbath. He'd come out victorious, but you'd lost everything. You'd even lost good men in the battle. Seeing their families’ faces when you were forced to deliver the news wasn't something that you would ever forget.

At the time, he claimed that he didn't know about your mission, but how could he not? Price knew if Makarov breathed too deeply. He knew everything. You were just another pawn in his game – and in Kate’s. That's what you'd told yourself that night that you left. If you hadn't, you wouldn't have ever found the nerve.

But, you knew in the very bottom of your heart that he'd never betray you like that. It wasn't his fault. It was war, and war takes no sides. It hurts everyone equally.

So, no, you didn't blame him. You blamed yourself. You should've taken precautions. You should've known when you were in over your head, but you'd always been too proud. Too sure of your own strength.

“Where'd you go, love?” His voice was softer this time. John watched you chase down old memories with him, stepping into your space again, hunting for answers to questions he didn't know how to ask.

“Bucharest,” you said quietly, “Took a few undercover jobs for Laswell. You know her. Fingers in every pie… Then, Moscow. Aqtabi. Damascus.”

“And why…” John took a moment to pull the rumpled coat from the back of your shoulders, tugging it off of you and letting it sag to the floor, “Did you come back?”

“Finished the job. Four weeks mandatory leave. You know the drill,” you rubbed your hands across his belly, fidgeting with his belt buckle, trying to distract him from his interrogation.

John caught your hands, gripping them none too gently, and he demanded your full attention, squeezing your smallest bones until they hurt. His voice resonated inside of his chest, like a dragon deciding if you would be his next meal or not,

“No. Why did you come back here? To me…”

His mouth was close enough to your nose for you to smell the musk of his breath and the heady tobacco of his favorite cigars. You lifted your chin to kiss him, pressing your lips to his for a connection that he wasn't ready for. His mouth hung open, slack and unprepared for your affection. He pulled back, denying you, and he grabbed you by the nape of your neck, scruffing you like a naughty pup.

“Cut the bullshit,” his cheeks flushed pink in frustration or lust or both; you really weren't sure, “Tell me why. Why are you here…” John yanked you back, forcing you to elevate your chest to keep your balance, giving him an unimpeded view of your plump breasts as they lay trapped behind the lace, “... in my fuckin’ kitchen… dressed like this…” He pulled down the top of the negligee, breaking its straps to reveal your nipples to the cool air of the room, “Haunting me like a goddamn ghost? It’s been months, Char–”

“I already told you once, John…” You interrupted him. Then, you lifted your leg, rubbing your shin and calf against his trouser leg until you reached his warm crotch, nudging his obviously growing length with your thick thigh, “That's not my fucking name.”

A sick smile spread across his face, and he laughed. Nothing was funny. And yet, he did it anyway. That low, rolling chuckle had the same effect on you as the sound of a singing pin being pulled from a grenade.

“I gave you a bloody chance, baby,” John snarled, using both of his hands to turn you around so that your back was pressed against his chest, shoving you into the worktop, “Gave you the option to tell me on your own…” His fingers traced their way up your bare back until he reached your neck, and then he squeezed hard enough to make you cry out, “But now, I’ll have to pull it from you myself.”

A hot, heavy palm came down hard on your asscheek, making you jump and squeal from the sudden pain.

John leaned forward, rolling his forehead across your shoulder, thrusting his clothed cock against you from behind,

“Fuck… Always so sensitive. Missed that.”

Another slap. This time, you bit back your reaction, reticent to give him the satisfaction of your noises.

“Oh, c’mon, love. Don’t play hard to get,” he goaded you.

His hand returned to the same spot over and over, four… five… six times, until your throat made a gutteral, desperate groan against your will.

“Mm,” John hummed in a gratified way, leaving little kisses along your trap muscle, “Much better.”

Now, he moved his attention to the backs of your thighs, giving you steady, flat-handed smacks on each one until you thought you might bruise. Your breath burned in your chest, and your teeth clenched together from trying in vain to keep yourself from making a sound.

“Missed this, too…” John purred, his fingers suddenly tracing their way up and over the curve of your ass and dipping between your legs, finding your warm core covered in lacy nothings.

You couldn’t help but take in a shuddering gasp when you felt his hand on you, teasing your sensitive lips through the mesh. With just the slightest pull from his hand, he could have touched you without a scrap of fabric between you. He could pull the fragile gusset to the side and touch your heated skin. But, he didn’t. John simply continued to rub and fondle your pussy through your lingerie, making your head spin, forcing you to question his motives.

“Did you come all this way just to be my filthy little slag?” John’s gentle fingers turned cruel as he squeezed the hardening body of your clit, pinching you just enough to make you twist out of his grasp.

You looked at him over your shoulder, smiling with a mask of sincerity in place,

“Yeah, John…” You shoved your ass back against his crotch, rubbing his cock with your curves, “No one else does it like you, baby.”

“Brat,” he growled, shoving himself fully on top of you. He was so heavy; his weight and strength pushed you flat against the wooden bench, and you were finding it hard to take a breath. Your ribs and belly were being crushed by his force, and there was nowhere for your lungs to expand.

“J–” You tried to protest, but he wrapped his enormous paw around your throat and stopped your words in their tracks.

“Shh, shh, shh,” he taunted you with an animalistic timbre, “You had your turn. Now, you can shut your fuckin’ mouth and do as you’re told.”

His hand moved quickly from your neck to your mouth, shoving two of his fingers inside and pressing into your tongue. Meanwhile, he fumbled behind you, plucking at the buttons of his crotch, dragging his heavy prick out to punish you with it.

You writhed your tongue against the prison of his hand, teasing him even though you were now mostly subdued. But, you were happy enough with your lot. Feeling his warm musculature working above you, leaning on you and needing you; that was a reward in and of itself.

“Tha’s it…” He praised you, “Suck on them, love. Jus’ like that.”

Your mouth worked against his hand, drooling on his fingers and slurping with lewd noises as you licked and sucked his callused flesh.

Then, he pulled them out of your mouth and brought them between your legs, tugging away at your costume so that he could press them roughly into your body. In doing so, he also revealed your best kept secret.

“Oh, fuck,” he groaned, his finger tracing over the thin bar of your anal plug, “Wha’s this, baby? Holy shit, you are such a needy girl. Mmmf–fuckkk…” He dragged his fingers along the soft, pliant entrance of your pussy, and when he plunged two of them inside of you, he angled them backwards to play with your plug from the other side of your thin walls. “There it is…”

The sensation of being invaded by such a strong hand was foreign to you. So many partners had treated you like you were some breakable, delicate thing. They would touch with one finger, slowly working you up until they gave you a second one, and never a third. Not John. He knew exactly what your body was capable of, and he was not a patient man. He knew how you liked to be handled, and he never held back.

You could only take in shallow gasps of air, and your cries of pleasure were tinged with a bit of pain, low and whining with each and every thrust of his hand. Through the thin lace, you felt the hot body of his cock as it lolled against you, waiting its turn, pulsing eagerly every time his fingertips brushed over the bulbous plug inside of your ass.

Over and over, he stretched his fingers into you, each one of them bigger than what some men were sporting in their trousers. He stuffed you full, pressing against your toy, his knuckles bending into your most sensitive spot, teasing both holes at once. You felt your wet bliss building up inside of you, and so did he. With the same, steady rhythm, he worked it out of you, making you come on his fingers. The sound of it filled the kitchen, along with your choked-back moans. You tried so hard to stop him from hearing you fall apart, but it didn’t matter. Your trembling legs gave you away, as did the sticky slick that he was now pulling out of you and rubbing over your clit.

“In my house…” John’s voice was fractured and panting, soaking with his need, “Wrapped up like a fuckin’ present… Plugged like a whore… Comin’ on my hand like you missed me… Goddamnit, love,” you felt him lean his brow against the back of your head, his breath warming the nape of your neck as he spoke, “Why are you doin’ this to me?”

“I missed you, John,” you whispered, arching your back for him, pulling his wrist around to your front, dragging his hand over your breasts.

He spun you around to face him, his face twisted between want and fury,

“That’s not enough.”

“Don’t you want me, baby?” You began to stroke his cock in long, sweeping pulls, listening as his precome began to smear down his shaft, making each pump silky and slick for you. “I know you missed me, too…”

Your negligee was still raked to one side, so you set his cockhead against your soft folds and began to jerk him off against your clit. Each twist of your hand pressed him through your swollen lips, teasing your already-sensitive nerves. The way his eyes rolled back in your head amplified your pleasure. Knowing you could tame such a beast gave you a thrill.

John only put up with your teasing for so long. Only a few minutes had passed until he was tucking your legs over his arms and hoisting you up on the kitchen island, knocking his own plates into the sink.

He hunched over you, his mouth dragging hot kisses across your tummy. Then, he lay his face between your legs and began to suck against your lips, licking at your quim with the flat of his strong tongue. His fingers returned to your pussy, stretching your hole, and you knew that he was preparing you for his prick.

John had never been able to fit without effort. You’d found that out the hard way in your shared tent one night in Khandor, and after that, he’d made sure that he had you nice and ready for him, weakening your tight slip with his mouth and his hands until you could take him with ease. You would be fuck drunk, stimulated nearly out of your mind, but he could finally bottom out inside of you, and that was all that he wanted.

His other hand was gripping your thigh so tightly that you were sure he was bruising you, and you could see the shadowed divots of his fingers as they pressed into your flesh.

“John,” you moaned with a high whine on the end of it, “Please…”

“Mm,” he pulled his mouth off of your pussy with a wet pop, smiling up at you from his sticky feast, “Another? If you say so, darlin’.”

He twisted a third finger into your hole and – between that and your plug – you thought you might not be able to handle him. But, as he began to eat you again, curling his fingers and knuckles inside of you, you couldn’t find the words to deny him. Your mind went blank, and your body stopped listening to reason. Your limbs fell, weakened in your joyous state, and your walls began to tighten, hoping to milk a cock that wasn’t even inside of you yet. A little more speed and he yanked another orgasm from you, pushing you beyond your edge, using his fingers like a baker, kneading you until you were ready to rise for him, bubbling happily to the top, proving yourself worthy of his work.

As you came, he used his tongue to taste your silky cream, and you could hear him swallowing the taste of you down his throat. When he came up for air, towering over you still fully clothed, his fingers still fondling you aimlessly, his smile shone with your pleasure painted right across his shaved chin.

John raked off his shirt and undershirt in one swift motion, pulling them from his back and over his head, letting you ogle his monstrous shoulders and wide chest in the process. Then, he began to crawl up onto the island with you, prowling over your limp body, shadowing you from what little light there was in the room. He bent himself to kiss your breasts, sucking on each nipple for a few moments, having trouble choosing between them.

As he kissed you, John was crawling over you on his hands and knees, not giving a single shit about his surroundings. The bottle of soap that was perched precariously on the edge of the sink tumbled into the well, clattering onto the washed dishes. His keys and wallet both rattled to the floor, kicked off by his boot, and without much fanfare, he pulled his sidearm out of his belt and tossed it in the sink as well, breaking whatever was unfortunate enough to be in there. His mouth kept returning to your breasts, nipping and suckling from you with absolute abandon.

His watch was next, hurriedly unlatched and slung onto the rug in his den, banging against the hardwoods. Finally, he licked over your left nipple and groaned with satisfaction, rubbing his fat cock against your folds. His shining ID tags jingled as they fell against your skin, and when he pressed himself into a missionary position, they dangled in front of your face, chiming gently as he fisted his shaft in his hands, prodding at your abused hole.

John sank himself inside of you until his crown was fully engulfed in your suede warmth, the foreskin surrounding him pulling back, unable to withstand your tight pressure. His sigh rumbled in his chest, and you used your hands to touch him, petting through his fur, teasing his nipples in return, stroking his big, heaving belly.

He turned to look down at you, and when he saw his tags were in your face, he pulled them over his head. Then, he grabbed you by the back of your skull, gripping your nape, and snarling at you with a twisted smile,

“Open up. Show me that tongue.”

You obliged him, moaning from the feeling of being stretched out over his cockhead.

“Hold onto these for me, would’ya?” John placed the tags in your mouth and looped the steel necklace around your head, letting the round cord fall across each of your cheeks like a horse’s bit. “Good girl.”

You tasted the metallic tang of the round cuts of steel, but you couldn’t help but enjoy having something against your tongue. To add to your experience, he pressed his mouth to yours, forcing his tongue inside, touching the tags himself, fucking your mouth with his writhing muscle as his strong phallus began to bully its way into your quim.

John pulled away from you and peered down into the dark valley between your bodies, staring at your coupling, watching himself contort your body to fit his need. He dragged his head back out, almost falling from you, and then slid it back inside, each time getting deeper and deeper with his shameless thrusting.

For you, it felt like he was entering you for the very first time, iteratively. You felt the terrible loss of his heat and his pressure, and in the next breath, he was back again, making you gasp from the sensation, sucking cold air through your teeth. You felt the metal cord of his necklace against your molars, and you let your hands roam his hairy body, dragging your nails across his belly and his back, petting him like a big bear. Being up here together on the kitchen island made you feel like you were on display. Some sexual ritual, something lurid and mystic. Uncivilized. Wild.

He was still in his trousers, and the canvas was rough against your legs, the belt he was wearing made a rhythmic jangle with each grind of his hips. But, he didn’t seem to give a fuck about any of that. He just wanted to fill you up.

Frustrated, he pulled himself out and used his hands to flip you onto your belly. The worktop was cold, and you tried to raise yourself onto your hands and knees, but his heavy palm shoved you back down. You craned your head back to see what his plan was for you, feeling every bit like a bunny caught in the claws of a hungry hawk.

Using his knees, he forced your legs apart, moving you like a ragdoll to get you into his desired shape, a pretty little puppet for his own amusement. With one hand glued to your ass to steady himself, he used the other to guide his length back inside. You watched as his face revealed his pleasure to you, twisting and contorting into delicious shapes as he felt your pussy consume him into her heat.

You let the tags fall out of your mouth to complain,

“Oh, fuck. You’re too big, John…” A groan resonated from deep in your chest as he sank the rest of the way inside.

“Fuck me,” he cursed, “And you’re too bloody tight. Fuck!” He snatched you by the hair and yanked you back so he could snarl into your ear, “Didn’t you let anyone else inside of this pretty cunt while you were gone? Hm? How many men had a fuckin’ taste of you, baby?”

“Plenty,” you lied through your wide smile, taunting him with a word he didn’t want to hear. There had been a few, but certainly not plenty.

John Price let out a noise that you thought couldn’t possibly come from a human being, yet it did. He fucked himself into you until his pubic bone was crushed against your bobbing anal plug, humping himself shamelessly forward, grinding as deep as he could go, bringing literal tears to your eyes.

With messy, frantic movements, he reached around to find his fallen tags and shoved them cruelly back inside of your mouth, gathering the steel chain from your neck and pulling back on it like reins. The necklace cut into the corners of your mouth, pressing into your cheeks and leaving two red lines from where it framed your face.

“This…” John slammed himself into you, thrusting hard and steady, pulling himself all the way out before hurtling himself back through you, “... This is my fuckin’ pussy. Always will be. I don’t give a damn,” he slapped your asscheek as hard as he could to punctuate his point, “How many bastards have had you, baby. You. Are. Mine.”

You couldn’t speak, but you could laugh. Even though you were shaking like a leaf from the overwhelming urge to come on his cock, you goaded him with your soft chuckling laughter. Through your ruined mascara and smeared lipstick, you let your mouth hang open against the chain in a simulated Glasgow smile, hoping he could feel your pussy squeezing the life out of him as you let yourself get lost in the feeling.

John fell on top of you, closing you in on all sides, pressing his cheek against your cheek as he began to rut into you faster and faster, building on your growing orgasm, growing your heat within your belly like a gleaming flame, sparking it into a roaring blaze. You could hear him whispering to you as he lost himself in your coupling,

“Think I’m funny, love? Think I can’t find you if I’m lookin’? I saw you in Syria. Knew you were in too deep, as usual…” Every few words were met with a blissful groan or a breath as he worked himself up to a froth, his body sliding against yours, his belt buckle clattering against the worktop, “You think Omar Al-Yassin died from a bloody heart attack?” Dark laughter rolled from his mouth like smoldering brimstone, “The moment he put a target on your back, he was a dead man.”

Of course. You knew it was too good to be true. You hadn’t thought that John had been the one to pull the trigger, but you suspected that the 141 had been sniffing around your operation in Damascus. It had their scent all over it. Sanctioned? Absolutely not. But John didn’t need someone to sign off on his business. Kate was lucky if she even got a phone call, much less a debrief these days. After Shepherd’s betrayal, John was one bad day away from landing on the wrong side of the line, and he didn’t seem to care.

“Fuckin’ hell, love,” he grunted, biting down on your neck for a moment, kissing you the next, “I can feel that plug in you. Every time that… I push inside… Makes me wanna come so bloody quick.”

The idea that he had murdered a man in cold blood for you, and that he wanted to spill himself inside of you, collided in your mind, bursting inside of your head like a bomb. Your body froze, the only thing that it cared about was spooling a coiling, snapping orgasm within your core, wrapping pleasure around you like a writhing snake. All the while, your poor, stretched quim tried her best to grab onto his length, tugging him further in, begging for his thick cream to fill you up.

“Yes, fuck!” John moaned, “Come for me, love. Takin’ me… So fuckin’ good. This pussy is mine… Has to be. Such a perfect fit. Perfect… Mmnghh… Mmn–fffuck!”

You felt how hot his come was as soon as he shot his load inside of you. It flooded your hole, and you came so hard around him that your plug slipped inside of you, making you feel like you were being fucked in your ass and your pussy at the same damn time.

He was groaning in desperate shouts, loud enough to shock you. You were making your own pathetic noises, but you weren’t worried about that. You just wanted to keep him inside of you. Fucking John Price had its perks, and that was your favorite one. He loved to stay inside after he was done, soaking himself inside of your warmth until he couldn’t hold it there any longer. You placed your hand on the back of his neck, letting his tags fall from your mouth once more, turning him so that you could kiss him. It was languid and aimless, but it was nice to feel his tongue on yours, tasting of your pussy. Both of you were trying and failing to make out, your orgasms ruining your kisses in favor of crafting wanton whorish moans inside of your throats.

“So good for me,” John gasped, kissing your lips and cheek and chin, “Such a good girl.”

“Stay…” You begged, “Stay inside of me, John… Don’t go.”

He breathed out through his nose, indignant, but he didn’t pull out,

“I should leave you empty, love,” he muttered, “Just like you fuckin’ left me.”

You searched his face, looking at his eyes to see his true feelings, and you frowned,

“I never meant to leave you alone. I just… I didn’t know who I was anymore.”

John pulled his cock from you, and you thought - for a moment - that you were being punished. But when he lifted you up from the island and carried you in his arms to his bed, you knew that he wasn’t cross. Not anymore. He followed you into the sheets and sat up with you, lotus style, guiding himself back inside even though his length had begun to soften. He gasped from the overstimulation, but when he found you warm and waiting for him, he let himself melt into you again, kissing your breasts and neck and mouth, enjoying you for just a little while longer.

He leaned back into the headboard and reached into his nightstand, pulling out a cigar stub. The match lit up the whole room for a moment, making him look every bit like the devil you remembered, and his first puffs of smoke hit you with a heady dose of nostalgia. He took a long drag and breathed it out all over you, letting his cloud dance across your belly and breasts, drawing little spirals as his breath dissipated around you.

Finally, he asked you,

“Did you find yourself, then?”

He came forward and kissed you, tasting like sex and smoke.

“Yeah,” you nodded, letting his kiss interrupt your answer, “I think so.”

“Why did you come here tonight, love?” It was the last time he would ask you. You could hear the finality in his tone.

He still held you in his arms; he still pressed his body against yours. John was still here. He had never left. But… you couldn’t look him in the eyes when you told him the truth,

“There’s a shipment coming into Haditha next week. Uranium. You have to take me back.”

It was his turn to study you, checking your eyes for any deceit. When he saw that you were telling the truth, he let out a ragged sigh,

“No.”

“John, please,” you immediately protested, reaching up to touch his cheek with your hand, making him look at you, “I need to make this right. If I can just–”

“I can’t do it, love,” he let the cigar linger in his mouth, and he moved his hands over you, fondling you, touching you like you would disappear again, “Can’t lose you. Hell, I don’t even know if I’ll see you again after tonight, and it’s fuckin’ killin’ me.”

John offered you the cigar. You reached out and took it, enjoying his softening cock as it began to weaken inside of you, teasing your sensitive hole. You smoked for a moment, studying him, letting your hands feel his incredible musculature. Wondering at him like he was some sort of treasure.

“I still have it, you know,” you shrugged.

“What?” He asked, genuinely lost.

“The ring,” you whispered, not trusting your own voice.

John didn’t speak.

You handed him back his cigar stick, and you watched him take it. He studied it for a moment before he decided to take a short puff, and then another, keeping the smoke in his mouth before blowing it away.

“Don’t play with me, love.”

“I wouldn’t. Not with this. You know that.”

“I’m serious. The chapel is open tomorrow. Don’t fuckin’ run your mouth at–”

“John,” you interrupted him, and he breathed heavily, his heart pounding against your fingers as you touched his chest, trying to center him, “If you still want me, you can have me. I knew I didn’t want to do this without you. Never should’ve left. I regret it every damn day. Please, John,” you hoped he could hear your earnestness. You needed him to hear you. This was your one chance to set things right.

Then, to your relief, he smiled,