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The Blackhawk’s rotors hadn’t even stopped spinning before Ghost had Soap by the vest, hauling him out of the cabin and across the tarmac. Rain sheeted sideways. Soap’s boots slipped on the slick concrete, but Ghost’s grip didn’t waver.
“Debrief,” Ghost said. His voice was flat behind the skull mask. The kind of flat that meant later, in private, you’re mine.
Soap’s heart hammered against his ribs. He could still smell cordite in his nostrils, still feel the phantom kick of his rifle. But underneath the adrenaline, something else coiled tight and hot. A low, thrumming need that only one person could satisfy.
The debrief took forty-five minutes. Soap sat rigid, jaw clenched, answering in clipped monosyllables. Ghost stood behind him the entire time, a silent shadow. Every now and then, a gloved finger would trace the nape of Soap’s neck—light enough to be accidental, deliberate enough to make Soap’s cock twitch against his zipper.
By the time they were dismissed, Soap was vibrating.
Ghost didn’t say a word. Just jerked his chin toward the barracks. Soap followed like a dog on a leash.
The door to Ghost’s quarters hadn’t even clicked shut before Soap was shoved against it, hard. The impact punched the air from his lungs. Ghost’s forearm pressed across his throat—not enough to choke, just enough to pin. The mask loomed in the dark. Soap could smell gun oil and sweat and something darker beneath.
“You were sloppy out there,” Ghost murmured. His breath was warm against Soap’s ear.
“I’m still alive.”
“Barely.” Ghost’s thigh slotted between Soap’s legs, pressing up. Soap’s hips bucked involuntarily.
“On your knees.”
Soap’s mouth went dry. He didn’t hesitate. The linoleum was cold and gritty under his knees, but he barely felt it. His whole world had narrowed to the man above him—the bulk of Ghost’s shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell, the unmistakable outline straining against his cargos.
Ghost unfastened his belt with slow, deliberate clicks. The sound of the zipper was thunderous in the quiet room.
Soap’s fingers twitched. He wanted to reach out, to grip Ghost’s hips, to bury his face in the heat.
“Hands behind your back,” Ghost said.
Soap obeyed. The position arched his spine, thrust his chest forward, made him feel impossibly exposed. Ghost stepped closer. The head of his cock nudged Soap’s lips—slick, hot, already leaking.
“Open.”
Soap parted his lips. Ghost fed him the first inch, then two. The taste was salt and skin and something purely him. Soap’s eyes fluttered shut. He worked his tongue along the underside, tracing the thick vein, hollowing his cheeks.
“Look at me.”
Soap’s gaze snapped up. Ghost’s eyes were black in the dim light, pupils blown wide. The mask hid his mouth, but Soap could imagine the sneer, the cruel little twist of his lips.
Ghost thrust deeper. Slow at first, then faster. Soap gagged, eyes watering, but Ghost didn’t let up. One gloved hand fisted in Soap’s hair, angling his head, controlling the pace. The other hand gripped the base of his own cock, feeding it to Soap inch by inch.
“That’s it,” Ghost breathed. “Take it.”
Soap’s jaw ached. Spit ran down his chin. His own cock was a hard, neglected line against his thigh, but he didn’t dare move. Ghost’s rhythm turned brutal—short, sharp thrusts that hit the back of Soap’s throat.
“You feel that?” Ghost’s voice cracked, just slightly. “That’s what you do to me.”
Soap moaned around him. The vibration made Ghost shudder. His hips stuttered, then stilled. Hot, bitter come flooded Soap’s mouth. He swallowed once, twice, but it kept coming. Some of it spilled past his lips, dripping onto his shirt.
Ghost pulled out slowly. A string of saliva and come stretched between them, breaking when Ghost stepped back.
“Messy,” Ghost said. He sounded almost amused. “Clean yourself up.”
Soap wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His knees were shaking.
“Stand up.”
Soap rose on unsteady legs. Ghost watched him, head tilted, a predator deciding its next move.
“On the bed. Face down.”
Soap crawled onto the narrow cot, pressing his cheek to the rough blanket. The springs creaked as Ghost’s weight settled behind him. A cold, gloved hand slid down his spine, over the swell of his ass, between his legs. Soap hissed.
“You’re soaked,” Ghost said. “Is this all for me?”
Soap nodded, speech impossible.
“Use your words.”
“Yes.” His voice came out ragged. “All for you.”
Ghost’s thumb pressed against his hole, dry and rough. Soap jerked. A sharp slap landed on his ass—hard enough to sting, to make him gasp.
“Don’t move.”
The glove came off. Soap heard it hit the floor. Then bare fingers, wet with something—lube, spit, he didn’t care—circling his entrance. One finger pushed in. Soap gritted his teeth. Two added pressure, a slow burn that made his eyes water.
Ghost leaned over him, chest to back, mouth at his ear.
“You’re going to take my cock,” Ghost said. “And you’re going to thank me for it.”
A third finger twisted, stretched. Soap’s hips bucked. Ghost’s free hand pinned his shoulder to the mattress.
“Please,” Soap choked. “Please, Ghost.”
“Please what?”
“Please fuck me.”
Ghost withdrew his fingers. The blunt head of his cock replaced them, nudging, teasing. Soap tried to push back, but Ghost’s grip held him still.
“Stay.”
Then he was inside. One slow, relentless inch after another. Soap bit the blanket, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. The stretch was everything—pain and pleasure fused into a single bright wire that ran from his asshole to his brain.
Ghost didn’t pause. Didn’t give him time to adjust. He pulled out to the tip, then slammed back in. Once. Twice. A brutal, punishing rhythm that made the cot screech against the floor.
“You think I didn’t see you out there?” Ghost grunted. “Showing off. Drawing fire.”
Soap couldn’t answer. Couldn’t breathe. Every thrust punched a sound out of him—a sob, a moan, a broken plea.
“You’re mine,” Ghost said. “Say it.”
“Yours.”
“Say it again.”
“Yours. Fuck, I’m yours.”
Ghost’s hand snaked under Soap’s hips, fingers wrapping around his neglected cock. Two strokes, three. Soap came with a shout, spilling over Ghost’s fist, clenching so tight that Ghost followed a heartbeat later—deep, hot, buried to the hilt.
They stayed like that, panting, sweat cooling on Soap’s back. Then Ghost pulled out. Soap winced at the sudden emptiness.
A bare hand smoothed over his flank—almost gentle.
“Get cleaned up,” Ghost said. “We’re not done.”
Soap lifted his head, blinking. “What?”
Ghost was already reaching for his belt again. The mask hid his expression, but his eyes—those eyes were hungry.
“You heard me.” He tossed a towel onto Soap’s chest. “Five minutes. Then you’re on your back.”