“I know.” I nip her lower lip. “But I plan to be thorough.”
Her laugh gets swallowed when I take her mouth fully—deep, claiming, a low growl vibrating in my chest when she opens for me without hesitation. She tastes like black coffee and whatever contraband cinnamon gum she stole from King’s locker. I lick into her, slow strokes meant to unravel, until her thighs flex around my hips and her fingers tighten in my hair.
“Take it off,” she pants against my lips.
“Bossy.” I slide my hands beneath the hem of the shirt and push upward, knuckles grazing smooth skin and the faint ridges of old scars she no longer tries to hide. She lifts her arms; the fabric slips over her head and lands somewhere on the floor with a quiet hush. Pale moonlight spills through the high window, painting silver across the gentle curve of her breasts, the bruise blossoming along her ribs from tonight’s recoil—proof of how hard she fought. Something fierce twists in my chest; I kiss that bruise first, tongue soothing, worshipping the hurt she earned.
She shudders. “Jon, please.”
“Patience, Lilah.” My palms frame her ribcage; thumbs flick her nipples until they tighten under my touch. Her head tips back, mouth parting on a sharp inhale. I watch her throat work, the column of it vulnerable, beautiful. Unable to help myself, Ilean in and bite gently where pulse meets jaw. She gasps and rolls her hips, grinding on the hard line of my cock still trapped in fatigues.
Control splinters.
I stand in one swift motion, hands gripping her ass to lift her with me; she wraps her legs around my waist, letting out a breathless laugh that turns into a moan when I press her to the wall beside my weapons locker. The metal rattles, the smell of gun oil blooming around us, mixing with the rain still dripping off the eaves outside.
She braces one palm against the wall, the other cupping my cheek, thumb stroking the day’s stubble. “I want you out of these,” she says, tugging at my shirt.
“Always so demanding, I thought I was the one in charge.” I mutter, but I peel the damp fabric over my head and toss it. Her fingers trace every scar—shoulder, flank, the thin white line over my heart where shrapnel nearly ended all of this before it began. She strokes it, eyes fierce.
“Still beats,” she whispers.
“Only for you.” I catch her mouth again, messy, hungry, while my hands slide under the cotton shorts she wears—nothing else beneath. My fingertips find slick heat and my knees nearly buckle. “Christ, Lilah.”
She bites my bottom lip. “Show me the ring, Captain.”
I growl. One hand leaves her to reach into the small locker shelf; I pull out the velvet box wedged between a field knife and a spare magazine. Her eyes go wide.
“You kept it there?”
“Safest place I know.” I pop the lid with my thumb. Moonlight catches on the simple platinum band set with a slender, unbreakable titanium core—a soldier’s ring for a soldier’s bride. Her breath catches, eyes shimmering.
“Yes,” she says, voice shaking. “Put it on me.”
My chest feels too small for my heart. I slide the band onto her finger; it fits like the final piece of a weapon locking into battery. She stares at it, then at me, and something tender and terrifying passes between us.
Need roars back into the space. I shove her shorts down, baring her to the cool air, and she kicks them free. Her legs tighten around my waist again, slick heat pressing against the zipper of my fatigues.
I carry her across the room; she bites along my neck, little staccato nips that brand. I fumble one drawer open, snatch the foil, tear it with my teeth while she reaches between us, freeing me from the constraints of uniform and buzzing impatience. Her fist wraps around me, sure and slick with her own arousal, stroking once, twice—punishment for making her wait. I hiss, catching her wrist.
“Be good.” I ask, voice raw, holding her gaze.
She nods, pupils blown wide with desire and trust. “Yes Captain.”
The words crack something in me. I thrust into her in a long, slow slide, burying to the hilt. Heat and velvet and home close around me; her head hits the pillow, mouth falling open on a strangled cry that I swallow with a kiss. Her nails rake down my back, grounding me to the sharp edge of pleasure.
We move in unhurried rhythm—this is not a scramble for release but a claiming, a memorization. I thrust deep and deliberate, rolling my hips so she feels every inch. She meets me with fierce little flexes, ankles locking at the small of my back, dragging me deeper still.
“Look at me,” I demand against her throat.
Her lashes lift; moonlit eyes lock on mine, glazed with heat and something softer. I feel every wall she ever built fall away, brick by brick, until only trust remains.
Tension coils low, tight. Her breath stutters; her body clenches. I slip a hand between us, thumb circling slick buds of nerves, never breaking eye contact. “Come for me, Lilah. Show me how alive you are.”
She fractures with a broken moan, walls pulsing around me, nails digging crescents into my shoulders as she rides the wave. The sight, the sound, the feel of her shattering under me drags me over the edge. I drive deep once, twice, then spill with a groan, burying my face in her neck as pleasure claws its way through my spine.
For a long moment, there is only breathing—hers quick and stuttering, mine rough and uneven—our hearts beating in sync.
I ease out carefully, tie off the condom, toss it toward the small wastebin. Then I collapse beside her, pulling her across my chest. She traces the ring with lethargic fingers; I kiss the crown of her head, tasting sweat and rain and the promise of tomorrow.
