You’re straddling Simon’s hips, wrists pinned above his head with one hand while the other circles him slow, almost lazy. He’s already half-hard under the thin cotton, jaw clenched in that trademark Ghost glare—brown eyes eyes daring you to try harder.
“Bad boy,” you purr, thumb swiping the first bead of pre-cum that wells at the slit. You lift it to his own lips, paint the glossy streak across them like war paint. “Stay quiet or I add another hour.”
A huff.
You start fast—tight, perfect strokes from root to crown, fist a blur, the wet slap of skin loud in the hush of the safe-house. His abs contract, hips bucking involuntarily. You watch the vein on his throat jump when you pause, fingers squeezing just under the head until the throb slows. A clear thread of pre-cum bridges your thumb to his belly; you catch it, hold it up like evidence.
“Not yet, Lieutenant.”
You shift down, knees braced on either side of his thighs, and start again—this time achingly slow, two fingers only, tracing the ridge of him like you’re memorizing every millimeter. He growls, a low rumble.
“Faster,” he snaps.
You answer by stopping entirely, letting him throb untouched for five full seconds while you lean in and breathe against his ear, “Who’s in charge here, Simon?”
He huff something obscene, but his hips twitch upward, begging. You reward him with a single, slick twist—just one—that leaves him leaking again.
Another burst of speed: palm twisting over the tip on every up-stroke, knuckles dragging tight on the down. His breathing goes ragged; you feel the tell-tale swell, the pulse right before release—so you clamp your grip at the base, halting everything. His whole body arches, dog-tags hitting your skin, a strangled curse ripping free.
“Bad. Boy.” You enunciate each word against the damp skin of his lower belly, letting your lips graze the salt there.
You keep him on that razor’s edge—ten seconds of break-neck jerks, five seconds of cool stillness—until sweat sheets his torso and the sheets beneath you are dark with it. When the next clear bead pearls, you smear it in slow circles around the head until he’s shaking, teeth gritted so hard you’re pretty sure he’s cracked one.
“Look at you,” you murmur, “all desperate and dripping. Still think you’re the scariest thing in this room?”
He bucks hard enough to nearly unseat you, so you lean your full weight forward, breasts brushing his chest, and whisper the countdown: “Three… two…” On one you sheath him in one tight, torturous glide—then let go completely.
Simon shudders your name in a beastily way like it’s a kill order.
You sit back, wipe your hand on his own discarded T-shirt, and announce, “Punishment complete.”
He blinks up, chest heaving, murder in his eyes. “The hell it is.”
You produce the final torture device: a cheap plastic kazoo you swiped from a kid’s party pack. You hold it between his legs, poised like a tiny trumpet. “Every time you swear, I add a kazoo solo to the after-action report I’m sending to Price.”
His jaw drops—actually drops—for half a second. Then he lunges, tags spinning, intent clear. You roll off, laughing so hard you nearly drop the instrument.
“Fine,” you concede, wiping tears. “One finish. But you have to keep a straight face while I play ‘Happy Birthday’ on this thing the second you come.”
He vaults up, pins you in one fluid move. “Deal.”
You stroke him the final dozen times—perfect, punishing rhythm—kazoo pressed to your lips. The instant heat floods over your knuckles you blast the first off-key note. Simon’s orgasm hits on a cracked laugh that echoes off the concrete walls, his release striped across your wrist and the ridiculous, buzzing plastic.
Task complete, you salute him with the sticky kazoo. “Happy birthday, bad boy.”
He collapses beside you, still twitching, muttering, “I’m burning that thing.”
