Beth: You better not hold out on me, Abernathy.
I set my phone down. Thatcher raises an eyebrow.
"Beth wants to know if we've figured things out yet."
"What did you tell her?"
"That we're getting there."
He grins. "Diplomatic."
"She'll grill me later."
"Probably." He glances at his watch. "We should get moving."
Steam fills the bathroom while we strip. My robe hits the floor. His sleep clothes follow. Then we're under the spraytogether, water cascading over us, heat building between us again.
His hands slide into my hair, gentle despite the want in his eyes. "We really don't have much time."
"Then we'll be efficient." I press against him and feel exactly how much he wants me. Hard and insistent against my belly. "Marines are good at efficient, aren't they Captain? And you're a good Marine, right?"
"You're very distracting."
I look up at him as I sink to my knees. "You have no idea just how distracting I can be."
His cock juts between us, thick and flushed and already leaking. I wrap my hand around the hot, silken length of him. He pulses in my palm, hard as steel wrapped in velvet, and a bead of moisture gathers at the tip. I swipe my thumb through it, spreading the slickness.
"Gwen—" His voice is strained as the water cascades over us. "You don't have to?—"
"Oh, but I do. More importantly I really want to." I look up at him through the spray. "Unless you're going to tell me you don't want this?"
His jaw clenches. "I definitely want this."
"Then stop talking."
I take him into my mouth, lips stretched around his girth, tongue flat against the underside. He's hot and heavy on my tongue, the taste of him flooding my senses—salt and musk and purely male. I hollow my cheeks and suck, taking him deeper until he hits the back of my throat. Above me, he groans and braces one hand against the tile wall, the other coming to rest in my hair.
"Fuck, Gwen."
I work him with mouth and hand, establishing a rhythm that has his thighs trembling. My fist twists at the base while mytongue traces the thick vein along the underside. When I flick the sensitive spot just beneath the head, his breath catches.
When I take him deep enough that my nose brushes the coarse hair at his base, he curses low and filthy. I pull back, swirl my tongue around the crown, then sink down again. His hand tightens in my hair—not pulling, not controlling, just holding on like I'm the only thing keeping him upright. The muscles in his abdomen flex and cord with each measured stroke of my mouth.
"You feel so good," he groans. "Your mouth—Christ."
Power rushes through me. This controlled, tactical man completely undone by what I'm doing to him. I increase the pace, sucking harder, using my tongue along the underside of his shaft.
His hips start to move, shallow thrusts he can't quite control. "Gwen, I'm close. You should?—"
I hum around him and take him deeper instead. His whole body goes rigid.
"I'm going to?—"
He comes with a strangled groan, pulsing hot in my mouth. I swallow and work him through it, only pulling back when he's spent and shaking.
I stand, water still cascading over us. He's staring at me like I just rewrote every tactical manual he's ever read.
"You didn't—" he starts.
