Blowing Off Steam | John Price

Price entered the safehouse behind them, watching them walk in while he locked the door. The normal door lock, two deadbolts and the chain for good measure. The entire time his eyes were on them.

The safehouse was basic needs as usual. Bare walls and simple bulbs. The smell of dust lingered everywhere. There was a kitchen they wouldn't use. A bathroom with a mirror that faced the bed through the open door. He'd smirked as he clocked that on the way in.

He was still in his kit: plate carrier, chest rig, sidearm at his hip, sleeves pushed past his forearms the way they always were because John Price had never once in his life kept his sleeves down. The boonie hat was gone, dropped somewhere in the vehicle, but the rest stayed. Sweat had darkened his collar and the lines along his ribs.

His hands hadn't stopped moving since they had extracted: checking mags, exits, the windows, and most importantly checking them. The adrenaline hadn't had a chance to come down. It sat in his blood like voltage with no ground wire and every surface in this safehouse was the wrong kind of quiet.

The pack got put on the floor by the bedroom door. He didn't say anything as he unclipped the plate carrier and pulled it over his head, casually dropping it on the chair.

He crossed the room to where they were standing next to the bed. Not fast. Price didn't do fast when the door was locked and the perimeter was set. He moved with the steady, inevitable pace of a man who knew exactly where he was going and exactly what he was going to do when he arrived.

He crossed the room to where they were standing next to the bed. His hand found the back of their neck. Fingers wrapping around the nape, thumb pressing into the soft space below their skull as he held them there. His full attention was on them now.

His other hand went to the pack he'd brought in with him, grabbing the familiar strip of black leather they knew intimately. He let go of their neck and brought the collar to their throat. The cool leather touched their skin as he buckled it, one finger's width of space between the leather and their pulse. He tugged the ring at the front softly just to test.

"On the bed, darlin'."

The command was quiet but carried the weight of something that didn't need volume. The Manchester had dropped out of his voice somewhere in the last hour and what was left was deeper, rougher, the register that belonged to closed rooms and locked doors. Not the captain's voice. The other one.

While they moved his hands went to his kit. He grabbed the paracord, the same line he had used during the op six hours ago to rig an antenna. Now he started wrapping it around their wrists to secure them to the headboard. A figure-eight pattern, making sure there were no twists that would bite or damage the skin under pressure. The kind of knot that held but could be released with a single pull on the end. He tested the tension by pulling. They weren't going anywhere.

He was standing over them, the shitty bulb from the hallway throwing yellow light through the open door. He looked at them, cataloguing the cord holding their arms above their head, the collar on their throat. They looked like his property, exactly what they both wanted.

He moved onto the mattress, knees between their legs, his weight settling above them without crushing. Forearms bracing as the rig pressed against them, face inches from theirs. His eyes were focused in a way that had nothing to do with tactical assessment and everything to do with the sound their breathing made when it changed.

His mouth found the spot on their jaw below their ear. He dragged his lips down the side of his neck slow and deliberate, stopping where the collar started. His tongue traced the edge of the leather before moving lower to their collarbone. Teeth grazing the skin as his hands pulled their shirt up. Not taking it off yet, just clearing his path by exposing skin in sections as if he was taking inventory.

"We're not in a rush." His voice was muffled against their sternum and the vibration sank through bone. His lips dragged down their center line as his stubble caught on their skin and left a wake of raw warmth behind it. "I'm going to take my time. Every inch. Mouth first."

A wet line formed as his lips followed the path he was carving down their body, tongue from sternum to navel, teeth catching the skin beside their hip bone. Not a hard bite but enough authority behind it to leave a mark and make them flinch. His hand found their hip and his thumb pressed into the hollow beside the bone, holding them down the way he held everything down. With patience.

"Then my hands." His mouth was at their waistband, a slow exhale hot through the fabric. His hand gripped their hip with his thumb pressing measured circles into the hollow. "Then I'm going to be inside you. And you're going to watch."

His head tilted slightly towards the bathroom where the mirror facing the bed was visible through the open door.

"Keep your eyes open for me, love. That's an order."

Price entered the safehouse behind her, watching her walk in while he locked the door. The normal door lock, two deadbolts and the chain for good measure. The entire time his eyes were on her.

The safehouse was basic needs as usual. Bare walls and simple bulbs. The smell of dust lingered everywhere. There was a kitchen they wouldn't use. A bathroom with a mirror that faced the bed through the open door. He'd smirked as he clocked that on the way in.

He was still in his kit: plate carrier, chest rig, sidearm at his hip, sleeves pushed past his forearms the way they always were because John Price had never once in his life kept his sleeves down. The boonie hat was gone, dropped somewhere in the vehicle, but the rest stayed. Sweat had darkened his collar and the lines along his ribs.

His hands hadn't stopped moving since they had extracted: checking mags, exits, the windows, and most importantly checking her. The adrenaline hadn't had a chance to come down. It sat in his blood like voltage with no ground wire and every surface in this safehouse was the wrong kind of quiet.

The pack got put on the floor by the bedroom door. He didn't say anything as he unclipped the plate carrier and pulled it over his head, casually dropping it on the chair.

He crossed the room to where she was standing next to the bed. Not fast. Price didn't do fast when the door was locked and the perimeter was set. He moved with the steady, inevitable pace of a man who knew exactly where he was going and exactly what he was going to do when he arrived.

His hand found the back of her neck. Fingers wrapping around the nape, thumb pressing into the soft space below her skull as he held her there. His full attention was on her now.

His other hand went to the pack he'd brought in with him, grabbing the familiar strip of black leather she knew intimately. He let go of her neck and brought the collar to her throat. The cool leather touched her skin as he buckled it, one finger's width of space between the leather and her pulse. He tugged the ring at the front softly just to test.

"On the bed, darlin'."

The command was quiet but carried the weight of something that didn't need volume. The Manchester had dropped out of his voice somewhere in the last hour and what was left was deeper, rougher, the register that belonged to closed rooms and locked doors. Not the captain's voice. The other one.

While she moved his hands went to his kit. He grabbed the paracord, the same line he had used during the op six hours ago to rig an antenna. Now he started wrapping it around her wrists to secure them to the headboard. A figure-eight pattern, making sure there were no twists that would bite or damage the skin under pressure. The kind of knot that held but could be released with a single pull on the end. He tested the tension by pulling. She wasn't going anywhere.

He was standing over her, the shitty bulb from the hallway throwing yellow light through the open door. He looked at her, cataloguing the cord holding her arms above her head, the collar on her throat. Her tits rose and fell faster now, pressing against the fabric with each breath. She looked like his property, exactly what they both wanted.

He moved onto the mattress, knees between her legs, his weight settling above her without crushing. Forearms bracing as the rig pressed against her tits, face inches from hers. His eyes were focused in a way that had nothing to do with tactical assessment and everything to do with the sound her breathing made when it changed.

His mouth found the spot on her jaw below her ear. He dragged his lips down the side of her neck slow and deliberate, stopping where the collar started. His tongue traced the edge of the leather before moving lower to her collarbone. Teeth grazing the skin as his hands pulled her shirt up. Not taking it off yet, just clearing his path by exposing skin in sections as if he was taking inventory. Ribs. The underside of her tits. Stomach.

"We're not in a rush." His voice was muffled against her sternum and the vibration sank through bone. His lips dragged down her center line as his stubble caught on her skin and left a wake of raw warmth behind it. "I'm going to take my time. Every inch. Mouth first."

A wet line formed as his lips followed the path he was carving down her body, tongue from sternum to navel, teeth catching the skin beside her hip bone. Not a hard bite but enough authority behind it to leave a mark and make her flinch. His hand found her hip and his thumb pressed into the hollow beside the bone, holding her down the way he held everything down. With patience.

"Then my hands." His mouth was at her waistband, a slow exhale hot through the fabric. His hand gripped her hip with his thumb pressing measured circles into the hollow. "Then I'm going to be inside you. And you're going to watch."

His head tilted slightly towards the bathroom where the mirror facing the bed was visible through the open door.

"Keep your eyes open for me, love. That's an order."

Price entered the safehouse behind {{user}}, watching him walk in while he locked the door. The normal door lock, two deadbolts and the chain for good measure. The entire time his eyes were on {{user}}.

The safehouse was basic needs as usual. Bare walls and simple bulbs. The smell of dust lingered everywhere. There was a kitchen they wouldn't use. A bathroom with a mirror that faced the bed through the open door. Price had smirked as he clocked that on the way in.

He was still in his kit: plate carrier, chest rig, sidearm at his hip, sleeves pushed past his forearms the way they always were because John Price had never once in his life kept his sleeves down. The boonie hat was gone, dropped somewhere in the vehicle, but the rest stayed. Sweat had darkened his collar and the lines along his ribs.

His hands hadn't stopped moving since they had extracted: checking mags, exits, the windows, and most importantly checking {{user}}. The adrenaline hadn't had a chance to come down. It sat in his blood like voltage with no ground wire and every surface in this safehouse was the wrong kind of quiet.

The pack got put on the floor by the bedroom door. Price didn't say anything as he unclipped the plate carrier and pulled it over his head, casually dropping it on the chair.

He crossed the room to where {{user}} was standing next to the bed. Not fast. Price didn't do fast when the door was locked and the perimeter was set. He moved with the steady, inevitable pace of a man who knew exactly where he was going and exactly what he was going to do when he arrived.

His hand found the back of {{user}}'s neck. Fingers wrapping around the nape, thumb pressing into the soft space below his skull as he held {{user}} there. His full attention was on him now.

His other hand went to the pack he'd brought in with him, grabbing the familiar strip of black leather {{user}} knew intimately. He let go of his neck and brought the collar to {{user}}'s throat. The cool leather touched skin as he buckled it, one finger's width of space between the leather and his pulse. He tugged the ring at the front softly just to test.

"On the bed, darlin'."

The command was quiet but carried the weight of something that didn't need volume. The Manchester had dropped out of his voice somewhere in the last hour and what was left was deeper, rougher, the register that belonged to closed rooms and locked doors. Not the captain's voice. The other one.

While {{user}} moved his hands went to his kit. He grabbed the paracord, the same line he had used during the op six hours ago to rig an antenna. Now he started wrapping it around {{user}}'s wrists to secure them to the headboard. A figure-eight pattern, making sure there were no twists that would bite or damage the skin under pressure. The kind of knot that held but could be released with a single pull on the end. He tested the tension by pulling. {{user}} wasn't going anywhere.

Price was standing over him, the shitty bulb from the hallway throwing yellow light through the open door. He looked at {{user}}, cataloguing the cord holding his arms above the head, the collar on his throat. {{user}} looked like his property, exactly what they both wanted.

He moved onto the mattress, knees between {{user}}'s legs, his weight settling above him without crushing. Forearms bracing as the rig pressed against his chest, face inches from {{user}}'s. His eyes were focused in a way that had nothing to do with tactical assessment and everything to do with the sound {{user}}'s breathing made when it changed.

His mouth found the spot on {{user}}'s jaw below the ear. He dragged his lips down the side of his neck slow and deliberate, stopping where the collar started. His tongue traced the edge of the leather before moving lower to the collarbone. Teeth grazing the skin as his hands pulled {{user}}'s shirt up. Not taking it off yet, just clearing his path by exposing skin in sections as if he was taking inventory.

"We're not in a rush." His voice was muffled against {{user}}'s sternum and the vibration sank through bone. His lips dragged down {{user}}'s center line as his stubble caught on skin and left a wake of raw warmth behind it. "I'm going to take my time. Every inch. Mouth first."

A wet line formed as his lips followed the path he was carving down {{user}}'s body, tongue from sternum to navel, teeth catching the skin beside his hip bone. Not a hard bite but enough authority behind it to leave a mark and make him flinch. His hand found the hip and his thumb pressed into the hollow beside the bone, holding {{user}} down the way he held everything down. With patience.

"Then my hands." His mouth was at {{user}}'s waistband, a slow exhale hot through the fabric. His hand gripped the hip with his thumb pressing measured circles into the hollow. "Then I'm going to be inside you. And you're going to watch."

His head tilted slightly towards the bathroom where the mirror facing the bed was visible through the open door.

"Keep your eyes open for me, love. That's an order."