Here is a thing about Roy Mustang. He was a killer, a war hero, a man who’d been spat on before by generals and seen as a brown-noser under the guise of a playboy. All these facts were clear, acknowledgeable. However, there was one thing people didn’t know about. On a personal level, he had an affinity for small acts.
And when he means small acts, he means the kind that made him think, think sensual thoughts that could be considered unneeded if he allowed it to continue. Riza Hawkeye knew of this. So when one of them was disgruntled — always him, but sometimes her — she would speak of her interest with action. The kneading of his shoulders. The press of her fingers against the knots in his muscles. It always made him sound lewd, and it would usually escalate from there if they weren’t, at the moment, currently being bombarded by cold water from the showerhead.
“Your newly acquired habit of massaging me in the shower is making us constantly late to work, lieutenant,” he said, hating how hot the water had become.
Riza continued to press her fingers against his shoulder blades. Careful, firm, enough to tell him that if he did anything off she had the strength to escalate it. Which, to be fair, sounded enticing. “If you’d prefer, I can stop doing it, colonel.”
Her nails dragged on his skin. Roy shuddered.
“But not without protest.”
Roy chuckled, hands still at his sides. He wanted to change the temperature, but somehow, in a slight change of heart, he wanted to know how far he could go. “Such a direct woman,” he mumbled. “You make me very loved.”
“I restrain myself in kind, sir.”
He could hear his blood pumping more. Damn him if he played the brat, but he wanted to. So Roy pressed his hips against her, smiling softly at her slight gasp. “Are you afraid of breaking me? Is that the problem here?”
“Not at all.” Her voice was low, huskier. He absolutely loved it.
After a few seconds, warmth spread to his back, the familiar body of hers pressing to him. One of her hands had slipped to his left wrist, locking it behind him in a tight grip. Roy’s heart was in his throat.
“What if I pressed you against the wall?” she mumbled into his ear. Roy bit his lip and nodded. Riza grabbed his other wrist. “Would you prefer a rougher method?”
Heat flushed his cheeks, his laughter light and breathless. “I do.”
Work could wait. He’ll tell the men they’d crashed the car.
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