25. Whip ‘Em Out #2
We stand there a long beat, neither of us moving, just breathing each other in. Finally, she pulls back and presses a hand to my chest.
“Go pack.” Her fingers trail down, nails scraping against my abs. “You’re running out of time.”
Then she flashes a smile that makes me forget my own damn name. “Maybe when you’re done, I’ll let you take advantage of me.”
Heat shoots straight to my core. My cock jumps hard. Fuck packing.
I grab her waist and yank her against me in one smooth pull. “You keep talking like that, and I’m not going anywhere.”
She gasps, that wicked glint in her eyes as she presses closer, lips barely grazing my jaw. “Then you'd better move fast, soldier.”
My grip tightens. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”
She exhales a breathy laugh. “You love it.”
“I do.”
I catch her mouth, kissing her deep and slow, savoring the soft moan that slips out as my hands slide lower to cup her ass.
She answers back, hand working down, palming me through my jeans.
“Jesus Christ, Melina,” I groan, forehead resting against hers.
She grins, unapologetic. “A week or longer, huh?” Her fingers tighten, stroking just enough to steal my breath. “I don’t know… that’s a long time to go without one of my famous blowjobs.”
Holy fucking hell.
I tense, blood rushing south so fast it makes my head swim. She licks her lips, eyes dark and teasing. “You better take one for the road.”
***
I can still feel the heat of Melina’s touch as we arrive at the airfield, my mind flickering between the mission ahead and the woman I’m leaving behind.
The roar of the C-17’s engines echoes across the military airfield, the thick night air humming with tension. We move through the floodlit tarmac in silence, rucks secured, weapons loaded, the weight of the upcoming mission settling in.
This is it.
I pull my ballistic helmet tighter under my arm as I approach the plane. The others move in sync, passing duffels up the ramp while the loadmaster works the pallets and tie-downs.
Bishop falls in beside me and says low, “Wheels up in five.” He taps his earpiece. “Gear check. Headsets good.” Steele gives a quick thumb-up. “Comms go hot on approach.”
I nod at the confirmation, jaw set. Behind us, Hale and Demo load the last of the kit. Their conversation is light but edged with the same restless energy that always comes before a deployment.
“Not too late to back out, boys,” Hale calls over his shoulder as he walks up the ramp. “Plenty of easier jobs out there.”
Steele snorts, tightening the straps on his pack. “Yeah? Doing what, exactly?”
Demo chuckles, slinging his M4 over his shoulder. “I hear bodyguard work in Dubai pays stupid money.”
Bishop rolls his eyes. “You’d last a week before dying of boredom.”
I shake my head and follow them up the ramp. The second my boots hit the metal floor, everything snaps into place.
Mission mode locks in.
I find my seat, slip my rifle into the rack, and strap in. Bishop sits opposite, methodically checking his gear. Steele next to him, fussing with his comms.
I exhale and let the routine settle me. It’s always the same—long hours in transit, mindless banter.
But this time I’m leaving a piece of myself behind.
I close my eyes and think of her—the way she buried her face in my chest, whispered she loved me, begged me to come home.
I’ve never had that before. It makes everything heavier.
The ramp seals, power climbs, and the bird surges forward. No turning back.
The transport pulls hard, and the wheels leave the ground as we climb into the night. Hours blur—charts, the low thrum of the airframe, quick stolen naps. But the knot in my chest never loosens.
We’ve got about 12⒈／⒉ hours airborne before we hit the ground, roughly twenty hours door-to-door with routing and stops. My pulse is already locked to mission tempo.
When we break for descent toward Niamey, the cabin tightens.
Bishop sits across from me, checking his sidearm, face unreadable under the dim cargo lights.
Steele, next to him, secures his comms and tucks his earpiece as the lead calls final approach.
Everyone tightens straps, checks plates, and runs a last visual on their kit.
Touchdown is blunt and loud. The C-17 slams the runway and rolls, metal and thunder underfoot. My fingers tighten on the straps of my ruck as we taxi toward the parking area.
The rear ramp drops with a metallic clank as the humid night air hits—thick and hot. It smells of dust, diesel, and sweat. Niger.
It’s not my first time setting foot in this country. But this isn’t an official military op—our only backup is six thousand miles away.
We’re alone out here.
Demo whistles low under his breath. “Goddamn. Like walking into a furnace.”
Steele adjusts his earpiece. “More like walking into a clusterfuck.”
No one disagrees.
We move down the ramp in formation, scanning the darkened airstrip. The heat is oppressive, thick with the scent of kerosene and distant sewage, the kind of air that settles into your lungs and never leaves.
At the bottom of the ramp, a single unmarked SUV waits, engine ticking, headlights off.
“Contact,” Bishop murmurs.
A figure steps out of the vehicle, movements calm. Our local fixer.
A Nigerien man in his mid-forties, lean and weathered, in civilian clothes but moving like he’s seen too much. His eyes scan us quick, then land on Bishop.
“You’re late,” he says in clipped, French-tinged English.
Bishop barely blinks. “You’re early.”
The man chuckles low and jerks his chin toward the vehicle. “Let’s move.”
We don’t argue. The less time spent in the open, the better.