"Tell me again, Lena," I mutter, eyes locked on the screen. "Say it in my ear, sweet girl. Say you're soaking your fingers thinkin' about Daddy." I add pressure, pump faster, breathing sharpened.
I imagine straddling her on that couch, bracing my forearm beside her head so she can't look anywhere but at me. Her thighs wrapped high around my torso. She always feels so small under me, not fragile, just soft and tight and built like a woman who should be worshipped everyday. I see myself pinning her wrists above her head with one hand—because she wants me to hold her down, because trust pours out of her like heat—and I whisper, "You'd take every inch, wouldn't you, soldier's girl?"
My strokes become brutal, the heel of my palm grinding against the base every time. Inside my head I'm not alone; I'm there, low over her, sweat dripping onto her collarbone, my gear pants half-open, belt clinking. She's there, arched into me, whispering, "Please, Gabe, just like that." I rumble, "Yeah, baby, take it. Take all of this cock." The sound that escapes me is a rough, "Gah—fuck," almost a growl, loud enough to bounce off the rental's walls.
I don't hold back because there's no one to hear, because discipline breaks when it comes to her.
I scroll more of her texts and picture filling her up right now, sinking deep, feeling her clench, telling her she's mine. I imagine bracing her knees against her chest and driving forward until my thighs smack her ass, until the couch squeaks. My breathing turns ragged. "Shit, Lena."
All energy channels into the grip of my hand and the images flashing behind my eyes. She's on her stomach now, hips lifted by my hand, spine arched like a bow. I'm kneeling behind her, boots digging into the cushions for leverage, pumping into her. My dog tags swing against her back. Each thrust forces a strangled "uh! uh!" from her throat. I can almost hear the slap of skin, the wet suction where we meet. I dig my fingers into my thigh to add more pressure to each stroke, like I'm bracing myself against her body. Sweat beads at my temples. I run my teeth over my tongue as I keep stroking.
"Gonna fuck you dumb," I rasp toward the glowing screen, voice calm despite the panting. I drag my thumb under the head again, circular, ruthless touches that make my hips jerk. "Tell you you're mine, over and over, till the whole damn town knows exactly who you scream for." My jaw flexes. I'm past the pointof no return, muscles tightening, abs clenching as I pump. Thick veins stand out down my forearm.
The idea of her hugging me with her whole body, the soft hitch in her breathing when I breach her, the instant heat—it all makes me buck into my fist. I let out a sharp "ahh… dammit," voice cracking. My head drops back against the chair, throat exposed, Adam's apple bobbing as the groans roll through me. My open shirt sticks to my chest with sweat. I imagine being back on that couch, her legs thrown over my shoulders. I can see the flex of her calves, the trembling in her thighs, her toes curling every time I bottom out. I mutter, "You beg for it, don't you, sweet thing? Beg Daddy to pound you till the whole house shakes."
I can't stop picturing her. Lena on top now, straddling me, riding hard, her nails digging crescents into my shoulders. I see myself gripping her ass, guiding her bounce, telling her how beautiful she looks when she takes me deep. In my head she's pleading, "Don't stop, please don't stop," and I answer by yanking her forward, sucking one nipple into my mouth while I piston up. Every fantasy runs through my mind like a combat simulation, precise and consuming.
Then I flip to the line:I'm a mess over here. Wish you were here to see it. I imagine kneeling between her thighs after she comes, spreading her slick, watching her squirm as I dive in again. My voice drops to a reverent whisper. "Bet you're so fuckin' pretty when you're messy, Lena. Bet your thighs shine." My hand gets faster, almost punishing and my muscles seize. I pin the phone between my abs and thigh so I don't drop it, then brace my left hand on the edge of the desk, fingers digging into the particle board.
I drill my hips upward, meeting my fist halfway, body tense. "Take it, Lena," I grunt, voice breaking into a strained groan.That final push flings me over the edge. I climax with a brutal, low growl. "Fuck!" My thighs shake, calves burning. I keep stroking through it, milking every last spasm, riding the surge until the pressure eases.
Only then do I slump back, chest heaving like I just sprinted in full kit. Sweat cools on my collarbones. My hand loosens, spent, resting warm and wet over the curve of my cock. A hoarse laugh rumbles out of me, not amused, just astonished that a woman miles away can empty me like this. "Goddamn, Lena," I murmur, voice shredded. "You've got me coming apart in shitty rentals." I wipe my palm over my abs and head for a quick shower.
Steam fills the room fast, and the heat settles into my skin, but nothing quiets the noise in my head. I stand under the water with one hand on the tile, muscles locked through my arm and across my back. The day is still in me, along with the odd jobs and the calls. They only fade when I let my thoughts reach her.
Every road I've taken in the last eight years has led back to Lena. I tried to outrun that truth. I tried to bury it under work, under travel, under distance, under women who were never her. None of it held. None of it touched the part of me she reached in one night and refused to give back.
She lives in everything I have not let myself feel. In the morning silence I open my eyes to. In the taste of the first drink I take at the end of a long day. In the ache that sits just under my ribs when I picture the way she stood in her doorway, trying not to let me see the hurt she carried alone.
I touch the scar on my side. The raised line reminds me of a night in the field when the world pressed down hard and I kept going because I had no other choice. There was no softness, no warmth, no voice to anchor me when the dark closed in. Iwalked through that life because there was nothing waiting for me anywhere else.
But then there was her.
Lena tore through every barrier I built by simply existing. She steadied me without trying. She gave shape to a future I never planned for. Her breath, her hands, her anger, her stubborn heart—every part of her pushed back against the emptiness I carried home from every deployment. She doesn't know what it means that I can breathe easier in her presence. She doesn't know what it means that I want to stay. Not visit. Stay.
I brace my shoulder harder against the wall. The water runs over my back, but the pressure inside me only climbs. I want her. I want the life she built. I want the boy who carries my eyes and her smile. I want to earn the right to stand in her kitchen in the morning and hear her laugh at something small and stupid. I want to learn the version of peace that only she can teach me.
And I want her in my hands again. Her voice in my ear. Her body under mine. Her breath shaking because she trusts me enough to let go.
"Soon, Lena," I say into the steam, voice low. "Soon, I'm gonna have you where I want you."
Not just in my bed. In my life. In the space I once kept empty because I did not believe I deserved anything better.
I turn my face into the water and breathe deeply. She is the one thing I refuse to lose again. She is the point every road returns to, even when I pretend otherwise. The pull is stronger tonight. Strong enough that I know sleep will not come easily.
I finish the shower and stand still, water dripping off me in slow tracks as the room cools around my skin. The quiet settles into my bones for half a second, then my phone starts buzzing on the counter. Lena's name lights the screen. I grab the phone fast, thumb slipping once on the screen. "Hey," I say, voice still rough from the heat. "Is everything okay?"
There's a sound on the other end—a soft breath, then silence. "Lena?" I press. "Talk to me. What's going on?"
Another pause lands between us, and I can almost feel her pinching the bridge of her nose the way she does when she's overwhelmed. "Nothing," she says finally, but the word bends. "Dad was here. Guess what he brought with him?"
My stomach drops with a hard, ugly certainty. "Nothing good, I'm presuming."
I move a hand through my wet hair and try to keep my voice even. She lets out an exhale, the sound shaking at the edges. "He set me up on a date with someone my age."
I freeze with one hand braced on the counter, towel hanging around my hips, chest tightening like a belt just got yanked. I knew this was coming in some form. That didn't stop it from hitting like a punch. "And?" My voice stays level, but it costs me.
Another breath from her—this one quicker, like she's pacing. "And…" She hesitates. "I think I'm gonna go."
