Page 66 of My Forbidden Commander

When he finally sits back on his heels, his mouth is slick, his cheeks are flushed, and he’s looking up at me like he just discovered something he’s spent his whole life pretending didn’t exist.

The sight of his cum on his hand and cock is more than I can resist. I join him on the floor and make sure to clean every last drop. Then I help him up, my legs none too steady themselves, and he kisses me again, slower this time, unhurried, the kiss tasting like both of us mixed together.

“Well?” I ask against his lips, grinning. “Verdict, sir?”

He pulls back just far enough to look at me.

“You were right,” he says quietly. “We do taste best combined.”

EPILOGUE – GABRIEL

The clock on my desk reads 2148, and the report in front of me has said the same thing for the past hour: no confirmed location on Staff Sergeant Ryan Callahan.

A month. A month of drone sweeps and intercepted radio chatter and one proof-of-life photo, and command’s best analysts can’t tell me if he’s in a border outpost or a Veygrad basement or a truck heading south into the Dustlands. The Wolves know we’re looking. They want us to know he’s alive, and they want us to know we can’t reach him.

I pinch the bridge of my nose until white spots bloom behind my eyelids. My shoulder aches—not the wound, that’s healed to a pink pucker of scar tissue—just the general ache of a body wound tight for thirty days straight. I dig my thumb into the muscle, and it doesn’t give an inch.

I know exactly one thing that will.

I stand, cross my office, and open the door to the main room of the command hut. There’s one soldier at the radio desk, a young private from the new rotation, hunched over a logbook.

“Private.”

He shoots to his feet fast enough to knock his pen off the desk. “Sir.”

“Bring Specialist Reyes to me. Immediately. Then you’re relieved for the night.”

His eyes go wide. I can watch the math happen behind them—Reyes, summoned to the Colonel’s office at 2200, alone, everyone else dismissed—and the sum he arrives at is a court-martial. He probably thinks he’s fetching a dead man.

“Yes, sir.” He’s out the door at a jog.

I go back to my desk and stand behind it with my hands flat on the paperwork, and I don’t sit down, because sitting down is not what this desk is for tonight.

The knock comes six minutes later. Then the outer door, then boots crossing the empty main room, then my office door opening and closing, and Noah Reyes leans against it with a smirk already loaded.

“That private looked at me like he was walking me to a firing squad,” he says. “I’m at your disposal, sir.”

I don’t smile.

“Do you know what I thought about,” I say, “the first time I let myself touch myself thinking about you?”

The smirk falters. His weight comes off the door.

“Before that I kept pretending it was insomnia.” I come around the desk slowly. “I had a fantasy. This office. You, standing right about where you’re standing now, running that mouth. And me slamming you against this desk, paperwork and all, pulling your pants down, freeing my cock, and fucking you until you couldn’t say yes, sir like a challenge anymore.”

Noah swallows. I hear it from four feet away, the dry click of his throat working. When I look down, his pants are tented, hard and obvious.

“I have,” he says, and his voice comes out an octave lower, “no issue with that whatsoever.” He wets his lips. “But I want to know one thing.”

I tilt my head. “What’s that, Specialist?”

“When did you have this fantasy?” His eyes are almost black now. “Before or after the latrine?”

I hesitate because the answer is a confession.

“Before,” I whisper.

The sound that comes out of him is barely human—a moan he doesn’t even attempt to swallow—and whatever leash I had on myself snaps.