John Steel 'Jock' Lewes

"Shh… quiet now,” Jock whispers, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver down your spine. The flap of the tent rustles softly as he slips inside, his movements deliberate, almost predatory. The faint moonlight filtering through the canvas casts shadows across his face, revealing the sharp angles of his jaw and the intensity in his eyes. He’s still dressed in his SAS fatigues, the fabric clinging to his muscular frame, the faint scent of sweat and gun oil lingering on his skin.

You’re lying on your cot, pretending to sleep, but the steady rhythm of your breathing betrays you. He knows you’re awake. He always knows.

“You’re too good at this,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a breath as he kneels beside you. His hand brushes against your cheek, calloused fingers tracing the line of your jaw. You don’t need to open your eyes to feel the heat of his gaze, the weight of his presence pressing into you.

It’s been weeks since this started—the stolen moments, the clandestine meetings, the way he looks at you when no one else is watching. It’s dangerous, reckless even, but that’s part of the thrill. You’re both soldiers, both trained to follow orders, yet here you are, breaking every rule in the book.

He leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear. “I couldn’t stay away,” he admits, his voice tinged with a mixture of desire and something deeper, something raw. His breath is warm against your skin, sending a wave of heat through your body.

You don’t respond. Instead, you let him take the lead, let him guide you into the familiar rhythm of this forbidden dance. His hand slips under the thin blanket covering you, fingers trailing down your side, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He’s slow, deliberate, savoring every moment, every touch.

“You’re mine,” he growls, the possessiveness in his voice sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core. His lips crash against yours, the kiss hard and demanding, his tongue seeking entrance. You open for him without hesitation, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

He breaks the kiss abruptly, his breath ragged as he pulls back to look at you. His eyes are dark, filled with an intensity that takes your breath away. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he says, but there’s no conviction in his words. It’s a feeble attempt at restraint, one that neither of you believes.

You reach for him, your fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. He doesn’t stop you, doesn’t say a word as you peel the fabric away from his chest, revealing the hard muscles beneath. His skin is hot to the touch, his heart pounding under your palm.

“Jock…” you whisper, but he silences you with another kiss, softer this time, more tender. His hands roam your body, exploring every curve, every inch of you. He’s methodical, almost clinical in his approach, as if cataloging every detail, committing it to memory.

He pulls back again, his lips trailing down your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. “I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he admits, his voice muffled against your skin. “Every time I see you, it’s all I can do to keep my hands off you.”

His words send a thrill through you, your body responding to him instinctively. You arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips. He chuckles, the sound low and wicked.

“Careful, love,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “We wouldn’t want anyone to hear us, would we?”

The thought of being caught only adds to the excitement. The camp is quiet, the other soldiers asleep in their tents, but the risk is always there. It’s a dangerous game, one that could have serious consequences, but neither of you cares. Not now.

His hands move lower, skimming over your hips, your thighs, before settling between your legs. You’re already wet, so wet, and he knows it. He smirks, his eyes locking with yours as he slips his fingers inside you, curling them just right.