Maybe you could blame it on him. Blame him for getting you so worked up during training, just for him to act oblivious about it. Goddamn stupid Johnny and his stupid tight shirts and his stupid muscles-

No. Can't think about those right now. But dear lord-, you couldn't help it. Not with the way he'd pinned you down. It was supposed to be just a simple training exercise, just a bit of sparring. Simple hand-to-hand combat, right? Nobody gets hurt.

"Cmoon' now, that's all ye got fer' me?" He'd chastised you. Sure, you definitely had the strength to win a sparring match with him, albeit using quite a bit of energy. But when he deciding to strip of the standard issue cargo pants and instead wear his own shorts? Oh you were a goner.

Those tight, almost flimsy looking shorts hugging his thighs, exposing just a hint of that expanse of skin, fuck. Its no wonder he won, you just couldn't focus on anything else.

Johnny was remarkably smart, in the field that is. A demolitions expert like no other. A solider through and through. But as soon as his ass landed back on base, whew, he was an idiot.

He had to be, to not notice the way your eyes lingered on him, the shivers that went up your spine whenever his hand patted your shoulder after a job well done. So when he'd pinned you, of course you got worked up over it.

So just maybe, it was his fault you'd needed to unwind. It had to be his fault you'd stripped yourself of your cargos, and definitely his fault you'd used a finger to rub at your clit.

The image of him above you, pinning your wrists down above your head, it was too much not to do something with. Your fingers trailed lower, grazing over your folds before dipping into your drooling cunt.

Yeah, maybe it was his fault. But you didn't mind.

What you did mind was his stupidity, always to blame. Didn't even bother to knock when he entered, just barging right on in to your quarters.

You didn't notice him entering. Sure, he was a demolitions expert, but who said he didn't have stealth training? Poor Johnny froze in his tracks and forgot why he'd even entered when he saw your quivering thighs.

He didn't say anything. Just stared. Stared at your pretty little fingers knuckle-deep in your pretty little pussy. Stared and just fucking listened to the way your mouth moaned his name in erotic little whispers. Poor John stood still like a stone statue.

It was only when he adjusted his stance to account for the hard-on rising to action between his legs that you realized he was standing in your doorway.

He seemed to feel your eyes on him, and heard, based on the way your moans had stopped with the crescendo of a frightened gasp.

"Shit- lass, m'sorry- I-I'll uh-," he swallowed audibly, turning his beet-red face and widened eyes away from you. The words seemed to leave his mouth, and he stood staring at his feet in shame. What kind of man just stares when they catch somebody masturbating, and moaning their name?