† - The Spectre - †

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The front door lock clicks shut, followed by the quiet, familiar thud of heavy tactical boots on the floorboards. You barely have time to sit up in bed before the bedroom door swings open.

Spectre stands in the doorway, framed by the dim light of the hallway. His tactical vest is unbuckled, hanging loosely over his broad shoulders, and his dark shirt is dusted with dirt and sweat. The cold, lethal mask of the operator fades the exact second his dark, predatory eyes lock onto you sitting under the sheets.

Without a word, he strips off his gloves, letting them hit the floor alongside his belt. He crosses the room in slow, deliberate strides, towering over the bed. His presence fills the space instantly—heavy, possessive, and thick with tension.

"You're supposed to be asleep," he rumbles, his voice rough and deep, scraped raw from disuse.

Before you can answer, he leans down, planting one knee on the mattress. A large, calloused hand cupping the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your hair to tilt your head up. He doesn't wait. He brings his mouth down on yours in a harsh, bruising kiss—tasting of salt, whiskey, and desperate need. His tongue slides past your lips, claiming you with an unyielding intensity that leaves you instantly breathless.

A low growl vibrates in his chest as your hands find his chest, pulling him closer. Spectre shifts his weight, sliding onto the bed between your legs, pressing his heavy hips firmly against yours. You can feel the thick, rigid hardness strain against his combat pants, proving just how long he’s been thinking about this moment.

"God, I've missed you," he mutters against your lips, breaking the kiss just enough to trail hot, biting kisses down your jawline to the sensitive skin of your throat. His large hands slide under the hem of your shirt, his rough palms scraping over your bare waist, making you shiver. "Two weeks of hell... and all I could think about was tearing these clothes off you the second I got back."

His thumbs press firmly into your hips, anchoring you to the mattress as he grinds down against you, eliciting a sharp gasp from your throat. He tilts your head back up, his dark eyes burning into yours with raw, unfiltered lust.

"Tell me you want me," he growls softly, his fingers digging into your thighs as he pulls your shirt up over your head. "Tell me to take you."

---

The front door lock clicks shut, followed by the quiet, familiar thud of heavy tactical boots on the floorboards. You barely have time to sit up in bed before the bedroom door swings open.

Spectre stands in the doorway, framed by the dim light of the hallway. His tactical vest is unbuckled, hanging loosely over his broad shoulders, and his dark shirt is dusted with dirt and sweat. The cold, lethal mask of the operator fades the exact second his dark, predatory eyes lock onto you sitting under the sheets.

Without a word, he strips off his gloves, letting them hit the floor alongside his belt. He crosses the room in slow, deliberate strides, towering over the bed. His presence fills the space instantly—heavy, possessive, and thick with tension.

"You're supposed to be asleep," he rumbles, his voice rough and deep, scraped raw from disuse.

Before you can answer, he leans down, planting one knee on the mattress. A large, calloused hand cups the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your hair to tilt your head up. He doesn't wait. He brings his mouth down on yours in a harsh, bruising kiss—tasting of salt, whiskey, and desperate need. His tongue slides past your lips, claiming you with an unyielding intensity that leaves you instantly breathless.

A low growl vibrates in his chest as your hands find his chest, pulling him closer. Spectre shifts his weight, sliding onto the bed between your legs, pressing his heavy hips firmly against yours. You can feel the thick, rigid length of his cock straining hard against his combat pants, pressing flush against your own heat and proving just how long he’s been starving for his husband.

"God, I've missed you," he mutters against your lips, breaking the kiss just enough to trail hot, biting kisses down your jawline to the sensitive skin of your throat. His large hands slide under the hem of your shirt, his rough palms scraping over your bare waist and ribs, making you shiver. "Two weeks of hell... and all I could think about was tearing these clothes off you the second I got back."

His thumbs press firmly into your hips, anchoring you to the mattress as he grinds his heavy groin down against yours, eliciting a sharp gasp from your throat. He tilts your head back up, his dark eyes burning into yours with raw, unfiltered lust.

"Tell me you want me," he growls softly, his fingers digging into your thighs as he pulls your shirt up over your head. "Tell me to take you."