lenny - joj

The past three hours were a blur. It started with Lewis Ford, bruised and battered, showing up at the nurse’s station. You’d treated him time and time again–he always asked for you by name whenever he’d find himself in a state of disarray–even if it was only a scrape on his cheek from a fight with another recruit. You were the only one he’d let remotely close enough to fix him up again. This time his injuries are a little more than a scrape, but still a result of a fight none the less. 

“I should start keeping a tally.” You don’t look up from your paperwork when he walks in and sinks down on the solid wooden chair in the corner. “This is the,” you check your records, “third time in a week. You’re getting sloppy.” A joke to make his dimples show. He likes your humour. 

“Sorry for the rookie numbers.” 

It’s your dimples that show then when you finally turn around to face him, scribbling a couple of notes down in his file before discarding it on the desk. “C’mon then, let me see the damage.” 

The space you were given was practically a closet, so it’s only a case of shifting forward until you’re leaning over Lewis, inspecting his face with gentle, gloved hands. He always seems to lean in a little when you check him over, like the touch from your hands is something he wants to seek more of. You never comment on it, but you make a point to linger enough for him to appreciate the feeling. Out in the field, training, he’s always busy, always so focused that you wonder if he’s ever made time to start a family. Or if he had one back home. He never talks about it–he talks about almost everything else with you, just not that. You make a considerate hmm sound then to break the silence before prepping some supplies to clean him up a little. 

“Is that a good sound or a bad one?” 

You don’t answer right away, instead you get to work cleaning the blood from his temples and securing the cuts that highlight his cheekbones. “It looks worse than it is. It won’t get infected.” To which he mumbles a small thanks as you offer a smile and move your hand from where it cups his cheek to dump the soaked rag in a small metal dish before he grabs your wrist. You freeze–and the look on your face must be one of confusion because his grip loosens and he suddenly looks more apologetic. 

“Sorry,” he offers, “just– you got a nice bedside manner. You’re gentle.” 

It tugs at somewhere deep in your chest, so you nod and Lewis drops his hand. When you pull back, you’re able to discard your supplies on the table and lean back against it without straying too far from his side. Then, before your brain can really catch up, the question slips from you too fast to catch it.

“How long has it been?” You ask.

He has to think for a moment. Lewis scratches at the scruff of his beard when he sinks back in the chair, unsure what to say–if he should even say anything. “Maybe a year… or two? I stopped keeping track.” 

“Guy that looks like you do—,” you pause, suddenly tongue-tied and unsure of your words but you try to recover it with a nonchalance that makes him smile up at you, “that surprises me.” 

A small, almost insignificant touch of his cheek shouldn’t have elicited such a conversation between you, but it did. You both realise something about the other. There’s a need for connection laying dormant below the surface, something that scratches to be discovered each time you find yourself tending to Lewis Ford, every time he winds up in your chair. But then paired with the contact, the compliment seems to have a visible effect on him and he straightens his posture, a small surge of confidence brewing in his chest at the way you look at him then–the slight widening of your eyes when you realise the kind of compliment you were giving him. “Why’s that?” Lewis asks, folding his arms. 

"Oh, come on," you start, you can hardly believe he's really asking you to clarify, "look at you, you're– you're handsome. It's hard to believe you don't have someone somewhere to pay a visit to every once in a while. That's criminal."

He lets out a sharp laugh, the kind that seems surprised, like he didn't quite expect you to be that straightforward. He relaxes more and then stands to his full height. “Yeah? You think so, huh?”

“Alright, don’t get carried away. I’m just saying,” you clarify, pushing back against the desk just slightly, “that I think you’d make some lovely lady out there feel very lucky.”

With each moment that passes, Lewis is a little closer to you. 

“What if the lady I want isn’t,” he gestures with a tilt of his chin toward the door to make a point, “out there.” 

You’re looking up at him a little like a deer in headlights, the implication isn’t missed on you but you don’t exactly know how to respond. You hadn’t anticipated this. But then the second his hands find your waist to hoist you up onto the table–not taking his eyes off yours for one second–you can only hitch a breath. It’s not like you didn’t know what was happening, the tension between the both of you was clear enough and you certainly both wanted to take that step. But part of you still couldn’t really believe it might actually happen–especially not with him. 

“Your stitches will rip.” You murmur, looking down to his stomach where, under his shirt are fresh stitches you gave him just three days prior. They wouldn’t, not if you were careful, but still. 

A scoff, playful. “You’ll just re-do them for me.” Lewis’ voice is softer now and it goes straight to the pit of your stomach.

“Oh, will I?” A faint smile lingers, just like his eyes do on your lips. “Even so, the doctors rounds start—,”

“Not for another thirty minutes.”

It catches you off guard. You’ve been treating Lewis for long enough, but you’d never really considered he’d pay attention to those kinds of things. Let alone enough to memorise them entirely. 

“You’ve been memorising?”

“Maybe. I like our time together, I’ve come to know when it’s about to be interrupted.” He’s so sincere with how he says it that you can’t even think twice anymore.

If the nurses station didn’t leave much to the imagination before, it certainly doesn’t now. It’s cramped and there’s bottles and ointments strewn about whatever surface can feasibly fit in the space. It feels even less spacious when Lewis Ford manages to crowd you against the desk–standing snug between your legs–hands cupping your cheeks as he manages to kiss you with a depth that leaves you following for more. The way he kisses you is more heated than you expected, if you could even think enough for any expectations on an encounter like this beyond pure instinct. It’s slow, deliberate. You’re sure by this point your cheeks are flushed.

For a moment, it feels like the world outside of the room ceases to exist.

Lewis pulls away, just centimetres, enough to see you–the way your eyes are already a little hazy, the way your cheeks are pinker, how you give him a small hum of disappointment the second his lips aren’t on yours anymore. And then he smiles, hands still framing your face to keep you in place, pupils blown out and you think you might drown in his eyes. “Been waiting to do that.” He offers. “Six months of trips to the nurse’s office. You’re one hell of a distraction.” Then he’s leaning in again, hands sliding down to rest against the warmth of your neck, it’s intimate, gentle. “I should apologise for messing up that professional focus of yours, too.” 

“But you’re not sorry for it, are you?” You ask, teasing.

“No, ma’am.” 

“Good.” You respond with a fond smile and your hands reach to the straps of his braces, hooking your fingers underneath them with precision and sliding them down his arms. 

Whilst he watches you pull them down, he tries to remain calm about it, feigning a flirtatiousness that does little to hide the almost anticipatory way his throat moves when he swallows. As soon as your hands leave the straps his mouth is back on yours within seconds. It’s hungrier this time, one of his hands slipping under your dress, just enough to touch the bare skin of your thigh above your stockings. The second he does, a noise escapes his mouth–soft, yet guttural. He feels you shiver at the touch, and he smiles into the kiss.

There’s a clinking sound that fills the room and Lewis’ hand is making light work of his belt and zipper, shucking his uniform pants down just enough to where they’re less restrictive. How he manages it one-handed makes your head spin, but not nearly as much as when his fingers on your thigh find your panties to pull them aside. Breaking the kiss once more, Lewis pulls back to murmur against your lips. “I was starting to forget what it feels like to touch someone like this.” All you can muster is a gasp when his fingers tease you beneath the fabric, hooked aside and set out of the way with a near-expert grip. If you hadn’t known he was a man who worked with his hands, you sure would have now. 

Then when he sinks into you slowly, your hands reach for his collar, then his shoulders, just for something to hold onto. Lewis is surprisingly gentle, and you’re both keeping hush despite how much you’d rather be calling out his name. There’s a deeper intimacy to it, the two of you seeking comfort in the physical as he brings his hand to cup your cheek again, thumb brushing over your bottom lip to keep them apart. “You know,” he murmurs, a small grunt following as he bottoms out again, “how many times I’ve thought about you?”

“Enough to keep coming back to me as many times as you do?” 

“Like I said,” he murmurs against your lips as he bottoms out, deep, “distracting.” He punctuates his words with another kiss, this time more languid, tongue licking against your own before his hips move again, shucking the desk against the wall with a concurrent bump that you know gives you both away. But you don’t care. 

The room fills with soft breaths, groans and moans that get hushed by hurried kisses. Your hands grab at Lewis wherever they can–his shirt, his shoulders, they thread through his hair. The moment won’t last forever and so you want to make the most of it, unable to get enough, almost like you’re scared he might disappear if you loosen your grip. You’ve mussed his hair by now, and loose strands hang down over his forehead and it’s mesmerising to watch them move with each skilled thrust of his hips when he looks down at where you’re both connected. With his brows knitted in concentration, paired with the way he smiles at you when he briefly looks up and catches you admiring his features, you think he looks beautiful like this.

His smile widens when he watches you bring your hand to your clit, circling, enhancing how you feel to bring you closer to coming. When you start clenching, muscles contracting around him, that’s when he falters and it’s clear he’ll lose it soon. 

“Keep doing that, alright?” He offers. “Keep going.” 

And you do. Until you both come together and he’s leaning his forehead against yours as you both desperately–pathetically try to keep quiet. He murmurs your name softly, hips starting to slow until he stops, pushing his hair back and leaning back to just look at you for a moment. To him, you’re glowing. The moment doesn’t last long, though, because you both hear movement in the hall outside. It’s disappointing to know your time together is over. When your breathing slows, you break the silence first. 

“Stop getting into fights to see me, just stop by, okay.” You say softly. Lewis gives you a soft huff and a nod.