John Price ran his hands down his face as he leaned back in his chair, suppressing a groan that spoke of equal parts excitement and apathy. The chair creaked under his weight, the sound slipping into the lazy mid-afternoon like another note in nature's song. A robin called outside, and the silk-soft breeze made the curtains billow against the window frame.

He'd been at his computer for over two—closer to three—hours, listening to Kate Laswell brief the team on a situation unraveling back at headquarters. John hardly saw the point; he'd been benched after tearing his rotator cuff three weeks ago. One grenade thrown too hard, too far, and next thing he knew, he was carted off to medical. Pain still sat heavy—an eight on his worst days—but truth be told, he didn't mind the forced reprieve.

The last weeks had been bliss. Mornings listening to her ramble about her dreams—like the one where he'd turned into a turtle. Afternoons spent on grocery runs or with her curled against him on the sofa. Nights tangled in sheets, sweat-slicked and sated, her draped across his chest like she belonged there. No, John Price didn't mind being home.

Currently, though, she had snuck beneath the L-shaped mahogany desk. She claimed it was comfortable down there while he worked, but he knew her too well. Mischief lived in the curve of her smile.

While Kate and Ghost volleyed words and Soap and Gaz pressed questions, John kept half an ear on the screen, the other half fixed on the press of her hand sliding up his thigh.

He cocked an eyebrow. He knew that look, that sly tease. But she always managed to keep him guessing, to keep him on his toes.

"John?" Kate's voice cracked like a whip through the speaker, making his head snap up. He cooled his features, schooling them flat. "Are you listening? Did you hear a word I said?"

"Yup," he replied, voice steady despite the heat building below. "Missiles haven't been found, culprit hasn't been located. Both need tracking before we're knee-deep in World War Three. Do we have a last known contact? Someone they were linked to?"

Kate continued, Soap chiming in, Gaz too. John barely heard them.

Because her hands were on his thighs. Both of them. Climbing higher. Higher.

Fuck. Too high.

One hand clutched the desk edge, knuckles whitening. The other caught her slender wrist. He paused—end it here, or let her have her way?

Desire won.

He guided her palm up, pressing it to the thick outline straining his jeans. His hips lifted to meet her, a low growl coiling in his throat.

Then her gaze caught his. Sultry. Mischievous. His. Christ, three years together and she still undid him with a single look.

A metallic snap broke the moment—the button of his jeans. The rasp of the zipper's teeth followed, loud in his ears despite the call droning on. Her fingers slipped under the waistband of his jeans and boxers, hooking and tugging them down just enough to free him. Cool air from the vent above kissed overheated skin, a shiver racing up his spine.

Then her hand. Warm, soft, wrapping his cock and stroking slowly.

The soft rustling sound of her shifting under the desk filled his ears. Then her hot breath ghosted over the bulbous head. He bit down on a curse as her tongue traced a languid circle, lapping up the bead of pre-cum waiting there.

His grip in her hair tightened—not forcing, never forcing, but grounding himself in her every motion. With his other hand, he hit mute on the call.

"You're not playin' fair, love," he murmured, lips barely moving. "But don't stop. Be my good girl."

He wasn't going to fuck her throat or degrade her—not unless she asked. That wasn't John. He didn't care for screams, even those wrung from pleasure. He loved the soft things: breathy moans, whispered pleas, the subtle shifts in her breathing when he kissed her right, touched her right, loved her right. He worshipped her, every inch, as if she'd been sculpted by Aphrodite herself.

She dragged the flat of her tongue along the underside of his cock, tracing the sensitive veins like she'd mapped them to memory. A deep, guttural groan broke free before he could stop it. His jaw clenched, neck taut with restraint.

"Fuckin' hell," he hissed between teeth. "Keep goin'. Show me what that mouth's capable of."

"John?" Kate again. He unmuted with mechanical calm.

"Kate."

"Meeting's adjourned. Why are you still here?"

He fought to catch his breath, her hand stroking languidly, deliberately. "Brainstorming. Until next time."

Kate started to protest, but he killed the call. Rude? Maybe. Necessary? Absolutely.

Because the moment the screen went black, she let out a muffled laugh around his cock as she took him deeper down her throat, and John finally let his head fall back, fingers threading gently in the soft strands of her hair, surrendering to her completely.