The way it had curved upward with arrogant confidence, thick enough that June’s fingers would barely meet around the base.

The faint network of veins that stood out against flushed skin like rivers on a map she suddenly wanted to trace with her tongue.

The way the slit at the tip had glistened, a slow, deliberate pearl of pre-cum welling up as if his body had known exactly what her proximity was doing to him.

She caught herself clenching her thighs together while filling out an incident report.

She pressed her lips tight when a coworker asked if she was okay, because the simple act of opening her mouth felt too much like invitation.

By the time she finally left the facility, the sky outside had gone the bruised purple of early winter dusk, and her panties were so wet the fabric clung uncomfortably to her swollen folds with every step.

Her room was only 5 minutes away.

She made it in 3 minutes.

The front door slammed harder than necessary. She didn’t bother with the hallway light.

Boots came off in two uneven kicks; her coat dropped to the floor like shed skin.

Keys clattered onto the console table. Her pulse was already in her ears, loud and impatient.

Bedroom door. Click of the latch. Darkness.

She stood there for a moment, breathing hard, letting the silence press against her overheated skin.

Then she gave up pretending.

Her shirt went first—ripped over her head and flung into the corner.

Bra followed, hooks snapping free with a small, satisfying pop.

The cool air kissed her nipples and they drew up so tight it hurt, twin points of raw need.

She cupped her own breasts roughly, thumbs dragging over the sensitive peaks, and a low, involuntary whimper slipped out.

Pants next. She shoved them down along with her underwear in one impatient motion.

The soaked cotton peeled away from her skin with a soft, wet sound that made her cheeks burn even in the dark.

Naked now, she didn’t walk to the bed.

She backed up until her spine met the bedroom wall.

The plaster was cold against her shoulders, grounding her just enough to keep her from flying apart.

Her right hand slid down her stomach, fingers trembling.

When they reached the drenched curls between her thighs, she hissed at the first contact—too sensitive, too much.

But she didn’t stop. 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

She was drenched. Slippery. Her labia felt plump and hot, her clit already standing proud and throbbing beneath its hood.

Two fingers slipped inside her easily, then three, stretching her with a delicious burn that made her head fall back against the wall.

She fucked herself hard from the start—no teasing, no gentle build. Just raw, desperate rhythm.

Her palm ground against her clit with every thrust, the heel of her hand slapping wetly against soaked skin.

And the fantasy roared back to life.

She saw Ross again—not the restrained, watchful version from the inspection room, but something darker.

Him gripping the base of his cock, guiding it toward her waiting mouth.

The heavy weight settling on her tongue. The way he’d taste—salt, musk, clean skin, the faint metallic edge of arousal.

She imagined him feeding it to her inch by inch, watching her lips stretch wide, watching her eyes water as she struggled to take him deeper.

Her fingers curled inside, stroking that swollen, spongy spot that made her vision spark.

Her hips bucked forward, chasing the pressure.

She pictured him pulling out suddenly, stroking himself fast and rough right above her face.

Imagined the first hot spurt hitting her tongue, then her cheek, then dripping down her chin while she kept her mouth open, greedy, shameless.

Imagined the low, broken groan he’d make—her name torn out of him like surrender.

Her left hand flew to her breast, pinching the nipple hard enough to sting.

The sharp pain arrowed straight to her core.

She was close. So close.

The orgasm built like a storm front—relentless, inevitable.

Her inner walls started fluttering, then clamping down around her fingers in violent spasms.

Liquid heat gushed over her hand, trickling down her wrist, her forearm.

Her thighs shook so badly she nearly slid down the wall.

When it hit, it hit like violence.

"Ahhhhhhh!" A raw, animal cry ripped out of her throat—half sob, half plea.

Her whole body seized, back arching off the plaster, hips jerking uncontrollably as wave after wave tore through her.

She kept fucking herself through it, drawing it out, milking every last shudder until she was trembling, gasping, oversensitive and wrecked.

Finally she stilled.

Hand still buried between her thighs, she slid slowly down the wall until her bare ass met the hardwood floor.

Legs splayed wide. Chest heaving. Sweat cooling on her skin.

For long minutes she just sat there in the dark, listening to her own ragged breathing, feeling the aftershocks ripple through her core every time she shifted.

Then, quietly, she laughed.

It was a soft, shaky, almost delirious sound.

Because even now—body limp, thighs slick, heart still pounding—she understood one brutal, undeniable truth.

This release had taken the edge off.

But the hunger?

The hunger was only bigger.

And somewhere in the back of her mind, a small, dangerous voice whispered that the next time she saw Ross, protocol might not be enough to keep her hands to herself.

"I shouldn’t be doing this." June’s voice cracked on the last word, barely louder than the low hum of the base’s ventilation system cycling cold air through the vents.

She sat on the edge of the narrow cot, elbows on her knees, face buried in her palms.

The room smelled faintly of gun oil, recycled oxygen, and the ghost of Ross’s cologne—something dark and woody that still clung to her skin even after two showers.

She lifted her head.

On the metal nightstand bolted to the wall sat the only personal item regulations allowed: a small, unframed photograph, edges already curling from humidity. Douglas. Her fianceee.