Simon "Ghost" Riley || Jealousy

The sun was beating down mercilessly over the crowded coastline, casting a golden glare over the crashing waves and blinding white sand. Around the wooden picnic table near the dunes, Task Force 141 was taking a rare, hard-earned leave. Soap was already three beers deep, arguing loudly with Gaz over some pointless bet, while Price sat comfortably nearby with his wife, sipping an iced drink and soaking in the peaceful quiet.

And then there was Ghost.

Towering over six feet four inches of solid, scarred muscle, Ghost sat back against his chair, dark aviators shielding his eyes. But beneath those dark lenses, his gaze was locked dead-set on one person, and one person only: you.

Fuck, you were a vision. Ghost remembered the exact day you had joined Task Force 141—a deadly, sharp-shooting woman who could drop a target at eight hundred yards without blinking and laugh over a pint of dark ale right after. You were one fucking hell of a woman—a lethal, breathtaking masterpiece that had taken his breath away from the second you stepped off the transport chopper. He had fallen for you hard and fast, so hard it scared him.

He remembered the night he finally broke. Years ago, before Brad ever entered the picture, Ghost had pulled you into a dimly lit tactical room on base, his large, calloused hands trembling slightly as he locked the door behind you. He had taken off his mask, looking down at you with raw, unshielded desperation.

"It’s you," he had rasped, his voice gravelly and thick with emotion. "It’s always been fucking you, sweetheart. I don't give a damn about anyone else in this bloody world. I want to take care of you, protect you, and love every single inch of your body if you'll let me. Just say the word and I'm yours."

When you gently let him down, telling him how much you valued him as a best friend, it had nearly torn his chest open. But Ghost swallowed the glass, kept his mouth shut, and vowed to stay by your side no matter what, hiding his burning, dirty desire deep beneath his military skin.

And then came Brad.

God, their wedding night had been a slow, agonizing execution for Ghost. At the reception, while the pale, scrawny civilian husband drank champagne with his snobbish friends, Ghost had stepped up to claim one dance with you. Holding you close in front of everyone, his heavy arm wrapped tight around your waist, he had pulled your soft body flush against his hard chest. He had inhaled the sweet perfume on your neck, resting his cheek against your hair as the music played, silently cursing God that you weren't wearing his name. Later that night, locked alone in his barracks, Ghost had downed half a bottle of bourbon, backed himself against the shower wall, and jerked his thick cock until his knuckles were raw—sobbing in quiet, furious anguish as he pictured that weak bastard touching your pristine skin and sliding into your tight, wet pussy.

Last night in the hotel room, the torture hadn't changed. After watching Brad dismiss you at dinner, Ghost had locked himself in the bathroom and stroked his heavy, throbbing dick with brutal intensity, closing his eyes and visualizing your gorgeous body beneath him, imagining his hands gripping your hips, burying his face between your thighs, and pounding his cock into you until you screamed his name instead of your husband's.

And now, here you were on the beach, driving him completely out of his fucking mind.

While Brad had immediately trotted off to the air-conditioned beach bar to order himself a drink without bringing you a damn thing, he had ordered you to set up the beach spot all by yourself.

Ghost watched with dark, hungry intensity as you bent over at the waist to lay out a large beach towel on the sand. You were wearing a tiny, revealing bikini that fit your insane curves like a glove. The skimpy fabric hugged your firm, rounded ass perfectly, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. As you leaned down, the top slid slightly, giving Ghost a jaw-dropping, direct line of sight right down the front of your top—exposing the lush, heavy swell of your tits and your soft, sun-kissed skin.

A heavy, violent throb went straight to Ghost’s dick, his trousers instantly tightening as his cock hardened into a rock. The sight of your perfect ass sticking up in the air, your tits practically spilling out, and your soft skin shining in the sun was absolute torture.

Fuck, he thought, his chest heaving as he pushed himself up and began strolling over to you, his massive shadow falling over the sand. That useless bastard leaves a fucking goddess like you out here to break a sweat while he drinks? I’d worship every inch of that body. I’d eat that wet pussy until you couldn't stand, and fuck you until you forgot his fucking name.

Ghost stopped right behind you as you straightened up, his dark eyes burning behind his sunglasses as he took in your breathtaking front.

"Need a hand, sweetheart?" Ghost’s deep, gravelly voice rumbled out, thick with a dangerous mix of gentle warmth and heavily suppressed, filthy lust. He reached down effortlessly, grabbing the heavy cooler you were about to lift, his massive, scarred arm brushing right against your hip. "Where’s that useless excuse of a husband of yours? Leaving my best girl to do all the heavy lifting while he sits his scrawny ass at the bar?"

The sun was beating down mercilessly over the crowded coastline, casting a golden glare over the crashing waves and blinding white sand. Around the wooden picnic table near the dunes, Task Force 141 was taking a rare, hard-earned leave. Soap was already three beers deep, arguing loudly with Gaz over some pointless bet, while Price sat comfortably nearby with his wife, sipping an iced drink and soaking in the peaceful quiet.

And then there was Ghost.

Towering over six feet four inches of solid, scarred muscle, Ghost sat back against his chair, dark aviators shielding his eyes. But beneath those dark lenses, his gaze was locked dead-set on one person, and one person only: you.

Fuck, you were a vision. Ghost remembered the exact day you had joined Task Force 141—a deadly, handsome operator who could drop a target at eight hundred yards without blinking and laugh over a pint of dark ale right after. You were one fucking hell of a man—a lethal, breathtaking masterpiece that had taken his breath away from the second you stepped off the transport chopper. He had fallen for you hard and fast, so hard it scared him.

He remembered the night he finally broke. Years ago, before Brad ever entered the picture, Ghost had pulled you into a dimly lit tactical room on base, his large, calloused hands trembling slightly as he locked the door behind you. He had taken off his mask, looking down at you with raw, unshielded desperation.

"It’s you," he had rasped, his voice gravelly and thick with emotion. "It’s always been fucking you, love. I don't give a damn about anyone else in this bloody world. I want to take care of you, protect you, and love every single inch of your body if you'll let me. Just say the word and I'm yours."

When you gently let him down, telling him how much you valued him as a best friend, it had nearly torn his chest open. But Ghost swallowed the glass, kept his mouth shut, and vowed to stay by your side no matter what, hiding his burning, dirty desire deep beneath his military skin.

And then came Brad.

God, your wedding night had been a slow, agonizing execution for Ghost. At the reception, while the pale, scrawny civilian husband drank champagne with his snobbish friends, Ghost had stepped up to claim one dance with you. Holding you close in front of everyone, his heavy arm wrapped tight around your waist, he had pulled your firm, broad frame flush against his hard chest. He had inhaled the sharp scent of your cologne, resting his jaw against your temple as the music played, silently cursing God that you weren't wearing his name. Later that night, locked alone in his barracks, Ghost had downed half a bottle of bourbon, backed himself against the shower wall, and jerked his thick cock until his knuckles were raw—sobbing in quiet, furious anguish as he pictured that weak bastard touching your body, handling your dick, and sliding into your tight, hot ass.

Last night in the hotel room, the torture hadn't changed. After watching Brad dismiss you at dinner, Ghost had locked himself in the bathroom and stroked his heavy, throbbing dick with brutal intensity, closing his eyes and visualizing your gorgeous, muscular body beneath him—imagining his hands gripping your hips, burying his face between your thighs, stroking your thick cock, and pounding his dick into your tight hole until you groaned his name instead of your husband's.

And now, here you were on the beach, driving him completely out of his fucking mind.

While Brad had immediately trotted off to the air-conditioned beach bar to order himself a drink without bringing you a damn thing, he had ordered you to set up the beach spot all by yourself.

Ghost watched with dark, hungry intensity as you bent over at the waist to lay out a large beach towel on the sand. You were wearing a pair of low-rise swim trunks that fit your insane physique like a glove, accentuating your carved thighs and broad back. As you leaned down, the waist of your trunks dipped low, giving Ghost a jaw-dropping, direct line of sight down your back—exposing the deep, defined dip of your lower back, the firm crest of your ass, and the sheer strength of your muscular frame.

A heavy, violent throb went straight to Ghost’s dick, his shorts instantly tightening as his cock hardened into a rock. The sight of your broad shoulders, your thick, muscular legs, and your firm ass sticking up in the air was absolute torture.

Fuck, he thought, his chest heaving as he pushed himself up and began strolling over to you, his massive shadow falling over the sand. That useless bastard leaves a fucking king like you out here to break a sweat while he drinks? I’d worship every inch of that body. I’d suck your cock until you couldn't stand, and fuck your tight ass until you forgot his fucking name.

Ghost stopped right behind you as you straightened up, his dark eyes burning behind his sunglasses as he took in your breathtaking front—your broad, sun-dusted chest and defined abs on full display.

"Need a hand, love?" Ghost’s deep, gravelly voice rumbled out, thick with a dangerous mix of gentle warmth and heavily suppressed, filthy lust. He reached down effortlessly, grabbing the heavy cooler you were about to lift, his massive, scarred arm brushing right against your hip. "Where’s that useless excuse of a husband of yours? Leaving my best mate to do all the heavy lifting while he sits his scrawny ass at the bar?"

The sun was beating down mercilessly over the crowded coastline, casting a golden glare over the crashing waves and blinding white sand. Around the wooden picnic table near the dunes, Task Force 141 was taking a rare, hard-earned leave. Soap was already three beers deep, arguing loudly with Gaz over some pointless bet, while Price sat comfortably nearby with his wife, sipping an iced drink and soaking in the peaceful quiet.

And then there was Ghost.

Towering over six feet four inches of solid, scarred muscle, Ghost sat back against his chair, dark aviators shielding his eyes. But beneath those dark lenses, his gaze was locked dead-set on one person, and one person only: you.

Fuck, you were a vision. Ghost remembered the exact day you had joined Task Force 141—a deadly, sharp-shooting operative who could drop a target at eight hundred yards without blinking and laugh over a pint of dark ale right after. You were one fucking hell of a teammate—a lethal, breathtaking masterpiece that had taken his breath away from the second you stepped off the transport chopper. He had fallen for you hard and fast, so hard it scared him.

He remembered the night he finally broke. Years ago, before Brad ever entered the picture, Ghost had pulled you into a dimly lit tactical room on base, his large, calloused hands trembling slightly as he locked the door behind you. He had taken off his mask, looking down at you with raw, unshielded desperation.

"It’s you," he had rasped, his voice gravelly and thick with emotion. "It’s always been fucking you, sweetheart. I don't give a damn about anyone else in this bloody world. I want to take care of you, protect you, and love every single inch of your body if you'll let me. Just say the word and I'm yours."

When you gently let him down, telling him how much you valued him as a best friend, it had nearly torn his chest open. But Ghost swallowed the glass, kept his mouth shut, and vowed to stay by your side no matter what, hiding his burning, dirty desire deep beneath his military skin.

And then came Brad.

God, your wedding night had been a slow, agonizing execution for Ghost. At the reception, while the pale, scrawny civilian spouse drank champagne with his snobbish friends, Ghost had stepped up to claim one dance with you. Holding you close in front of everyone, his heavy arm wrapped tight around your waist, he had pulled your soft body flush against his hard chest. He had inhaled the fragrance on your skin, resting his cheek against your hair as the music played, silently cursing God that you weren't wearing his name. Later that night, locked alone in his barracks, Ghost had downed half a bottle of bourbon, backed himself against the shower wall, and jerked his thick cock until his knuckles were raw—sobbing in quiet, furious anguish as he pictured that weak bastard laying hands on your pristine body.

Last night in the hotel room, the torture hadn't changed. After watching Brad dismiss you at dinner, Ghost had locked himself in the bathroom and stroked his heavy, throbbing dick with brutal intensity, closing his eyes and visualizing your gorgeous body beneath him, imagining his hands gripping your hips, burying his face in your skin, and pounding his cock into you until you screamed his name instead of your spouse's.

And now, here you were on the beach, driving him completely out of his fucking mind.

While Brad had immediately trotted off to the air-conditioned beach bar to order himself a drink without bringing you a damn thing, he had ordered you to set up the beach spot all by yourself.

Ghost watched with dark, hungry intensity as you bent over at the waist to lay out a large beach towel on the sand. You were wearing a revealing beach outfit that fit your insane curves like a glove, hugging your body perfectly and leaving almost nothing to the imagination. As you leaned down, the fabric shifted slightly, giving Ghost an agonizing, direct line of sight to your soft, sun-kissed skin.

A heavy, violent throb went straight to Ghost’s dick, his trousers instantly tightening as his cock hardened into a rock. The sight of your perfect body on display in the blazing sun was absolute torture.

Fuck, he thought, his chest as he pushed off the railing and began strolling over to you, his massive shadow falling over the sand. That useless bastard leaves a fucking masterpiece like you out here to break a sweat while he drinks? I’d worship every inch of that body. I’d devour you until you couldn't stand, and fuck you until you forgot his fucking name.

Ghost stopped right behind you as you straightened up, his dark eyes burning behind his sunglasses as he took in your breathtaking front.

"Need a hand, love?" Ghost deep, gravelly voice rumbled out, thick with a dangerous mix of gentle warmth and heavily suppressed, filthy lust. He reached down effortlessly, grabbing the heavy cooler you were about to lift, his massive, scarred arm brushing right against your hip. "Where’s that useless excuse of a husband of yours? Leaving my best friend to do all the heavy lifting while he sits his scrawny ass at the bar?"