rambling cove

the real danger starts when his teeth suddenly sink into the meat of your thigh like some needy mutt, just enough to make you jolt.

then he kisses and licks the mark like that fixes anything. grinning widely when he sees the imprint he left behind.

“coulnae help maself, bonnie.”

kyle is gone the second he rests his head in your lap. completely gone. the way you play gently with his curls, fingers massaging his scalp while his eyes flutter shut…

it would make any man melt. 

“my sweet girl takin’ such good care of me.”

but be aware, this soft man might turn feral in a moment, fighting the overwhelming urge to drag his tongue along the inside of your thigh just to hear the sound you’d make for him.

graves is totally not staring at how your thighs fill out those slacks today.

he insists on wedging onto the couch beside you that is clearly too small for two people, “helping” you dig through stacked folders for a contract that he misplaced.

when he runs his mouth again to defend himself, you nudge your thigh to push him out of the way.

“careful, darlin’.” he catches your thigh before you can pull away, thumb pressing slow into the soft flesh there. “keep this up and i’m gonna forget we’re workin’.”

alejandro’s hands always drift to your thighs whenever he pulls you close. you’re never safe wearing a shorter skirt or dress near him.

loves putting you on top of the counter, spreading your legs just enough so he can stand between them with heat in his eyes.

“how’s a man supposed to stay respectful with these thighs wrapped around him, cariño?”

the worst part? that devastating grin turns downright smug when your legs part wider for him without you even realizing it.

and rudy - our sweet, disciplined rudy - pretends to be better than the rest of them.

but one look at your thighs in shorts and suddenly he’s wishing for the old rosary his abuela gave him years ago, the one sitting forgotten on the bedside table shelf.

he shuts his eyes with a quiet curse in spanish.

“dios mío you’re gonna be the death of me.”

as if gripping those worn beads could save him from every impure thought clawing through his head right now.

…and if any of these men ever catch you feeling insecure about your thighs - hating their size, disgusted by those dimples and ripples of cellulite, yada yada yada - best believe they’ll have many ways of reminding you just how much they love them.

⤷ MASTERLIST

next, you learned that price was in the military. he never shared too many stories, but you heard enough about the ones who had his back.

and sometimes, when he came home from deployment, he showed up at your door with a tired smile and a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

“got a spare couch for a few days?”

the door was already opening wider to let him through. “only if you leave the muddy boots by the door.”

the first time he invited you to a barbecue at his place, you almost didn’t go. it would be interesting to finally see his comrades, yet the introverted side of you kept insisting it would be awkward.

“you sure they won’t mind?” you asked, mulling the idea over.

john, he’d insisted you call him that now, let out a low huff on the other end of the line. “havin’ someone normal ’round might do ’em some good.” there was a hint of a grin in his voice.

when you arrived, his house smelled like grilled meat and charcoal smoke. the rest of the team came into view.

a tall masked man leaned against the fence, listening to whatever the mohawked man was yapping about.

the man in the baseball cap was laughing near the cooler with a sharp-eyed woman, sipping something fizzy.

those sharp eyes clocked you immediately as john guided you closer.

his big, warm hands settled on your shoulders, giving a reassuring squeeze that kept you from fleeing.

“everyone,” he said casually, “this is her.”

all eyes locked on you, and you tried not to cringe under the sudden attention.

“didn’t know you had friends outside of us, sir,” the mohawk quipped.

“pipe down, mactavish.”

the day turned out far better than you’d expected.

kyle, the man with the million-dollar smile, and johnny, the one who could never seem to stay still, turned out to be hilarious storytellers.

you found yourself chatting with kate about the places you’d travelled, realising she had a stern yet motherly air about her.

a gruff “thank you” was even earned from the tall masked man - simon, you learned his name - after offering him a second helping of the dessert you baked. you’d noticed how he’d practically vacuumed down the first plate. even helped you rinse the baking dish afterward.

the dreaded question never came. no one asked what you were to john price.

what you missed, though, were the knowing looks they shared when you casually snatched the tongs from the captain to help him flip the burgers while he insisted he had everything under control.

it was not the first time they heard about you, after all.

it stayed that way for a while.

john would disappear for weeks, sometimes months.

then it became routine for him to text whenever a deployment was ending, never failing to show up at your doorstep once he was back.

there were always new scrapes and bruises that concerned you.

and sometimes, there was a hollow look in his eyes, times when he hovered a little closer than usual, like he needed to be near someone untouched by whatever he’d seen out there.

he’d stay a few days. sleep. drink coffee on your balcony. fix random things around your apartment.

before long, the rest of the team slipped into your life too. easy laughter, familiar faces.

and then john would be called to another mission.

neither of you ever tried to define what you were to each other.

back in 2d

you’d grown used to receiving simple texts from random numbers. burner phones, non-traceable, john had mentioned before.

the quickening of your heart was just excitement from seeing him safe and sound again, you assured yourself.

three days passed. then four.

missions ran long. something might come up at the last minute, you convinced yourself.

still…

when the doorbell rang on the fifth evening, you rushed to the door so fast your slipper slid against the floor.

john would’ve scolded you for opening the door before checking who it was—

simon.

alone.

“fuck!” the tall man’s hands shot under your arms.

if it hadn’t been for his fast reflexes, your kneecaps might’ve slammed to the floor with how fast your body gave out.

your voice came out thin. “is he…?”

“he’s alive—price is alive!”

like a marionette with its strings cut, your limp body was dragged inside by this mountain of a man. he made sure you were steady in the chair before returning with a glass of water.

“hospital,” simon said after making sure you took a sip. “banged up, but he’s tough.”

your hands were still shaking.

“woke up and told us to pass it on. didn’t wanna have you worryin’.”

simon let out a quiet sigh, knowing your reaction was more than friendly concern.

for two grown adults, the pair of you were fookin’ clueless.

a week later, john was sitting on your couch with his leg stretched out, still wrapped in a brace. 

the stubborn expression that told you he already thought he was healed enough was clear on his face.

before handing his second beer of the night, you reminded him, “doctor said no running, no tinkering about, and no being stubborn.”

john snorted. “doctor says a lot of things.”

“you’re lucky i convinced him i’d look after you instead of letting you stay at the hospital.”

“and miss this five-star hospitality?” he said, taking the bottle. “would’ve been a bloody tragedy.”

you rolled your eyes at his sarcasm. for a while, the room was quiet.

eventually, he sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“you didn’t sign up for this.”

not following his line of thought, you looked at him, confused.

“for taking care of me.” he gestured vaguely at the brace, the couch. “should’ve spent your saturday out with some bloke who can actually look after you.”

you frowned. “you know i’m not looking to date—”

“that’s not the point.”

silence filled the room.

“figured it was better this way. us not bein’ together.”

“john—”

he cut you off. “just… let me finish.”

“didn’t want you lyin’ awake, wonderin’ if i was still breathin’ somewhere halfway ’round the world,” he continued quietly. “didn’t want you waitin’ for a knock at the door, someone tellin’ you i’m comin’ home in a box if i’m lucky.”

the words sat heavy in the space between you.

“but i’m a selfish bastard,” he added roughly. “still want you in my life.”

a prickling burn filled your eyes. “you’re unbelievable.”

he blinked.

“my heart stopped when i saw simon at my door. i thought you were dead, john!”

the way you said his name made his chest tighten. the tears slipping down your cheeks nearly undid him.

“i’ve always known what your job means. i’ve known the risks when i let you into my life. i know one day something could go wrong.”

“love—”

“maybe i’ve always hoped there’d be something more. but you never said anything, and i didn’t want to ruin whatever this is between us.”

you drew in a shaky breath, fighting to keep your voice steady.

“if you think keeping your distance was protecting me from the worst”—embarrassedly, you wiped at your cheeks—“you were a little late.”

something in his expression shifted then. like a wall he’d kept carefully built finally cracking.

“bloody hell. c’mere.”

before you could react, he tugged you down onto the couch. a quiet grunt of pain escaped him.

“john—your leg—” you protested.

“i’ll live.” his arm slid around your shoulders, gathering you close against his chest. “pain is proof this is real.”

he dropped his face to your hair, breathing you in, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“i’m an idiot.”

calloused thumb brushed gently beneath your eyes, wiping away the last traces of tears. he leaned down, pressing a slow kiss to your forehead. 

then another, softer, deeper, when his lips found yours. lingering longer this time, tasting the faint salt of your tears.

“could’ve done this ages ago, eh?”

you sniffed, playfully smacking his chest.

“well,” he murmured, basking in the warmth of your skin, eyes soft under that gruff exterior. “think i owe you a proper date, yeah?”

“took you long enough.”

for the first time that evening, he let out a real laugh.

his hand slid warmly along your arm as he held you closer. “better late than never.”

later that night, after you’d fallen asleep in his arms, john’s phone lit up. a new group chat message blinked on the screen.

she kicking you out yet, cap?

chuckling softly, he typed back:

seems keen on keeping me around might move in together after all

almost immediately, an all-caps FINALLY appeared.

the man was speaking with sheriff price. or more like, sheriff price was doing the talking.

you’d have asked her what the sheriff was doing in the saloon, alone, and before opening time at that. you weren’t blind to the stolen glances between them.

but that thought died quick when ghost—mr. riley—stepped in, just as you were setting down the goods your friend had ordered before the storm rolled in.

your skin prickled whenever he was close. the man, in all his brutal allure, was like a walking sin. broad-shouldered temptation wrapped in scars.

and you were no better than the ladies in town, curiosity gnawing at your ribs, wondering what it might feel like to touch something so forbidden.

at night, those impure thoughts worsened. rousing you to clammy skin and want.

later, the storm rolled in like god himself had thrown down his anger. you were halfway through latching the mercantile when a rough hand caught the door.

“riders were spotted not three miles out. your father’s debts got them comin’ hard again.”

sheriff price must have shared about your situation. as much as your father—may he rest in peace—was a good man, the cards and dice had eaten him alive. now you bore the weight of his debts.

“i’ve managed before.” you tried to push the door shut, but his grip was iron.

“these ain’t the kind to haggle. they’ll collect what’s owed, one way or ’nother.”

pointedly, mr. riley’s eyes cut to your body, the meaning sinking in like ice through your veins.

“so i’m supposed to just leave everything behind?”

his eyes flicked past your shoulder, landing on the bucket catching water from the roof, the lamp sputtering on its last bit of oil, to the near-bare shelves that were a poor excuse for a mercantile.

shouldering in, the rain dripped from his duster, wetting the floorboards. “you stay here, you’ll be as dead as a rabbit caught in a snare. my place sits on higher ground, few know it’s mine. safer.”

what madness!

as if the pitying glances after your father’s death weren’t enough, he was suggesting something highly improper for an unmarried lady: staying in a man’s house unchaperoned.

before you could protest further, sheriff price pushed in through the storm. he shook water from his coat, gaze landing on you, then slid to mr. riley with knowing weight.

“riley’s right,” the sheriff said, voice gruff. “safer you bunk down with him. i’ll do what i can in town, but i can’t be everywhere at once.”

“and if folk talk?”

sheriff price shrugged, but his eyes softened. “folks always talk. better to be gossiped about than buried.”

it wasn’t until she spoke did you notice your friend had slip in behind the sheriff. her voice gentler than his when she urged, “go. don’t make this harder.”

that was how it happened. riding with mr. riley through the storm, his solid frame at your back, shielding the worst of it.

by the time he hauled you into his cabin, you were shivering, drenched to the bone. the tall man set to lighting a fire, then shrugged off his soaked hat, duster and gloves.

with the fabric plastering against your skin, you tried to tug it looser, only to catch his gaze following the movement, his expression unreadable.

“you’ll catch your death in that.”

“i’ll survive.” though your teeth chattered.

his jaw flexed. “don’t reckon you quite understand. you’re under my roof now. means i’ll keep you alive, even if you fight me on it.”

mr. riley stepped closer, and your pulse drummed.

“take it off,” he said lowly, nodding at your calico dress.

“e-excuse me?”

“before you freeze.” he paused, then turned his back to fill the kettle. the jar he unsealed released the unmistakable aroma of coffee.

knowing fever would claim you otherwise, and with no other logical choice, your trembling fingers fumbled at the buttons of your bodice. shame biting hard at being caught in such a compromising state.

a roughspun blanket cocooned you once you’d stripped down to your chemise. warm breath stirred the fine hairs at your temple, and the room suddenly felt too small.

the blanket slipped when you turned. in the haste to clutch it tighter, your fingers brushed his.

that single touch lit something between you. he stilled. gaze dropping to your mouth. the flames painted his face in gold and shadow, accentuating the scars on his face.

“we shouldn’t…” you whispered, though the way you leaned into him betrayed your own resolution.

somewhere along the way, good sense had fled. it was only curiosity, you told yourself. the need to know if his heat burned as fierce as the fire.

the kiss came rough, stealing the breath from your lungs. you gasped against him, a sharp sound he swallowed greedily. the whole cabin tilted when his tongue brushed yours.

mr. riley’s hand gripped your waist through the blanket, hauling you flush against the hard planes of his chest. you should’ve stopped him. pushed him back. instead, your fingers fisted tighter in his shirt.

in the next breath, your back sank into the mattress as his weight settled over you. both naked as the day you were born. but there was no coldness, only heat.

“mr. riley—”

“shh.” his mouth dragged along your throat, a subtle graze from his teeth arched your back. “it’s simon.”

strong fingers splayed over your thigh, rough callouses scraping your skin, baring more of you to the fire’s glow. those dark brown eyes clouded with hunger.

simon’s mouth descended again, this time lower, to your breasts, where he leisurely suckled on your nipples, over your stomach, and down until he was tasting you, devouring you like a man who has been famished.

the cry tore from your throat as you clutched the coarse sheets. his tongue stroked deep until he pushed you over the edge. his name breaking from your lips like a prayer.

the feeling of the blunt head of him pressing against your slick entrance cut through the haze.

“simon, wait—”

breath ragged, body trembling, he halted. “do you want me to stop?”

you quickly denied, but it was hard to look into his eyes when you whispered, “this is not my first time.”

a murderous glint flashed in his eyes. “did someone hurt you?”

heat flushed your cheeks. “n-no. just…it wasn’t pleasant.”

this time, his hard mouth curved. not in humour, but in pure male satisfaction. “then i’ll make damn sure you forget all ‘bout it, darlin’.”

slowly, inexorably, he pushed inside, stretching you full. it was too much and not enough at the same time.

it felt as if a wanton goddess had been unleashed, as though some long-buried yearning had at last been quenched. you needed him to move, canted your hip even.

instead, simon pressed your cheek, forcing your gaze to meet his.

“take my name, and not a soul will dare touch you.” suddenly his hips recoiled and advanced, thrusting him deep within you. “they won’t breathe easy with ghost watchin’.”

⤷ MASTERLIST