Chapter 17 Gabe
GABE
Working from a rental has never rattled me.
I've hit deadlines in desert tents lit by red-lens headlamps, scribbled intel reports inside rattling cargo planes, even ran ops from busted safe houses where the only chair was a crate of ammo.
But this place? This quiet, off-brand corporate apartment with its beige carpet and faint smell of cleaning chemicals?
Tonight it's a cage, because my head's still back at Lena's.
I know the town is gossiping, and I could tell that it was getting to her, tied to the brave face she wore even though her voice kept catching.
I know the subtle flinch of someone bracing for a hit, the way a soldier's shoulders twitch before mortars fall, and she had that same nervous tension coiling beneath her skin.
Seeing her like that, knowing the town is chewing at her because of me, because of what we did, because of the way I look at her in public—it's a load-bearing guilt I can't shrug.
I try to keep my eyes on the laptop, stare at the rows of numbers I'm supposed to reconcile, but the figures bleed.
Letters smear. All I can see is her small living room this morning, the soft blanket thrown over her knees, the way crew members of the rumor mill smile with their teeth but not their eyes.
For a man who has clocked in hundreds of hours in the field, who can compartmentalize carnage and focus, this dizziness feels like a sucker punch.
I drag my palms over my face, push the laptop aside, and sit back hard.
The borrowed chair squeals in protest. My muscles knot at the base of my skull from hours of driving and from holding my expression in check while I told her I'd handle it, that no one messes with my people.
Pretending to be calm is harder than running live-fire drills.
My fingers brush my dog tags under the open collar of my shirt, seeking some talismanic weight, but all they give is cold metal against hot skin.
The heat follows a path down, coiling low, heavier with each slow breath.
My phone lies face-down near my elbow. Habit makes me flip it over.
Her thread fills the screen before I even unlock the damn thing, because I've never been disciplined about closing it.
The last thing she sent sits at the top, but I don't start there.
I scroll back, past today, past the logistical check-ins, down to the raw stuff she sent while we were still breath-deep in each other's words.
I hover over the one that undoes me. Holy fuck, Gabe. I just came so hard.
I set the phone balanced on my thigh, angle it so the lines shine like encrypted intel.
My right hand slides automatically to my fly, knuckles grazing the brass buckle I've had since I was twenty-one.
When I palm myself through the fabric, the aching weight that never really left since I walked out of her house surges to the surface.
I unzip slowly, like dismantling a weapon.
My cock presses forward with the kind of insistence that makes me grit my teeth.
My fingers wrap around the base, dragging upward in a measured stroke.
The first tug pulls a deep grunt from my chest, thick and guttural, rattling the quiet room.
If she were here now, I'd have her on my lap, staring deep into her eyes while she rode me.
My grip tightens, strokes slow, just a little rough.
I skim my thumb over the head and hiss through clenched teeth.
"Christ, baby," I rasp under my breath, letting the words roll out.
"You had me ready to bust through the steering wheel all the way back. "
I shift, feet planted wide, knees sprawled around the chair, pushing into the rhythm.
I read her message again, letting each syllable sink in like coordinates.
She typed that she'd come hard. I picture it: Lena sprawled on that couch, tank top bunched under her bra, nipples sharp, shorts dangling from one ankle because she couldn't be bothered to kick them off entirely.
Her fingers down between her thighs, knuckles shining.
Her hair fanned over a cushion. Her voice breaking into those breathy little whimpers that wreck me.
My pace matches the imagined tempo of her hand moving across her clit. I drag my palm from base to tip, twisting over the sensitive ridge, thick precum coating my skin, slicking the glide. "Fuck," I groan, feeling the word vibrate along my throat.
"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 point of 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.
I walked 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."