Chapter Text
Oh god.
Your tits.
He can’t help but think of them sometimes. It’s usually during the strangest, weirdest moments but sometimes, he just can’t help himself.
Which is a paltry excuse for his already chubbing-up meatwand between his legs, because, what is he? Some teenager with uncontrollable hormones raging like a bull from his endocrine glands? God. No, he shouldn’t be. He just couldn’t help but recall the way he had woken up several hours earlier with you half-sprawled atop him, chest mushed against his bicep as you drooled all over his shoulder.
He also shouldn’t be sweating as he fries the two eggs, sunny side up, please per your request as you sit at the table. The man peers over to you, an amused expression on his face as yours continues to be absolutely zoned out, save for your gaze riveted to the coffee that’s dripping into an oversized mug.
Lieutenant R– No. Mr. Simon Riley shouldn’t be so… Well, he shouldn’t be feeling this way as he stares at the two eggs that are still frying in the pan.
Two eggs , he thinks, like her tits – Wha–? No! You’re right, Simon. Two eggs, like your nu –
“Thank you,” you murmur, effectively breaking the man out of his eggs-and-tits-and-nuts reverie.
He looks at you as you remove the coffee filter holder and toss it into the compost before ladling in several heaping spoons of sugar in, followed by a hefty pour of cream. The man blinks, unable to fully understand caffeine dependence paired with unnecessary amounts of sweetener, but that’s none of his business.
As you stir your drink, you reach over for the still-hot kettle and pour steaming water into his mug (one that has a baby deer) with a fresh bag of English breakfast tea.
The both of you move around together like clockwork, as though he had been living with you for the past few months.
Food is plated up: a half English breakfast. Fried eggs, toast, tomatoes, and caffeine.
(When he had seen a pot of your parsley plant growing under the little UV lamp, he had added a few sprigs onto your tomatoes as a “color contrast.”)
When you apologize a little later for not having some type of extra protein to eat, he gently chides you for it. For someone who had been getting by on terrible rations and whatever they could scrounge, drinking tea out of a Bambi cup and stabbing at sliced tomatoes is more than what he ever could have hoped for.
“It would have been a bit better with a sausage or two,” you state, eyes a bit more sparkly and bright now that your overly-sweetened coffee is making its way through your circulatory system.
As always, he nods in agreement. No , he thinks to himself. One sausage would have been more than good enough. He can already imagine Soap giving him a thumb’s up.
---
Getting to the Christmas tree farm turned out to be less interesting than he had expected.
Your truck seems to be in pretty good shape, but he assumes that since you happen to be very handy on your farm, you know how to take care of vehicles as well. It’s interesting what a good amount of Googling and support could do, although he does feel terrible leaving you out here in practically the middle of nowhere. It’s a weird balance, really, because he’s caught between enjoying and wanting to be babied and also wanting you to enjoy and baby you.
He did get a stern talking-to from you when you had fully woken up (note: full stomach of breakfast and fully caffeinated). You had plans on doing the farm chores of pitching hay and feeding the chickens and the other critters, but he had slipped out of bed the moment you had slipped off his arm.
The man wants to give you the world, truly.
He’s no stranger to knowing and understanding how social media works. You’re any other woman, and regardless of how anyone would consider themselves better than others, everyone likes a little bit of luxury here and there. Yeah. He’ll get you something nice one of these days, he thinks to himself. Take you to London and spoil you with his paycheck.
It isn’t until you’re chit-chatting with a very friendly Mr. Ingram that he snaps out of his second daydream of the day.
“Good morning,” the dark-haired man greets him, holding out a gloved hand to Simon. “Oh, you must be the famed Mr. Riley. To be quite fair, I thought you were more of a myth, so it’s great to see you in the flesh. My name is Marcus Ingram.”
Frowning behind his face mask, he takes the man’s hand, giving it a firm shake. Well. It definitely doesn’t help that this sod looks relatively handsome, with his height almost as tall as himself and long black hair pulled up into a ponytail. Simon begrudgingly thinks that he looks quite right, looking oddly proper in his warm coat and dark jeans and it occurs to him that this milksop likely doesn’t work on this farm but owns it.
A right spoiled sod.
Simon’s eyes glance briefly towards you and your never-ending cheery smile that Marcus returns. Is this your type, the relatively-waifish looking nerd? Simon’s nose scrunches as he eyes the man’s circular glasses. He didn’t know that you were into hipsters.
“Hello,” is the lengthy bisyllabic response that he gives to Marcus.
“Mm. He doesn’t talk much, does he, love?” Marcus laughs, elbowing you with such a familiarity that the muscles in Simon’s fingers twitch just slightly. “There’s no need to wear a mask here, by the way, we’re outdoors and–”
His brain goes off in all sorts of directions as he blankly stares down this stringy bean.
“My husband feels more comfortable wearing it,” you interject, slipping your hand into Simon’s. He grunts something as though that would add more substance to your defense of his fashion choices, but then both of your hands are holding onto his scarred one, and everything is alright again.
The both of you trudge around the place, Simon tailing behind you. The hand you had held previously is curled up into a loose fist, as though he’s still cherishing the warm sensation that your cold fingers had left on his skin.
From what it sounds like, you and Marcus are quite a bit on friendly terms. It makes him grit his teeth internally at that. Even though he tries not to let it get to him, it gets to him anyways. Sure, he’s aware that this marriage is all one of convenience and that of course it’s understandable that you may get lonely, but–
But fuck.
Fuck, if he isn’t even more aware of convenience and loneliness in the most inconvenient of times.
Simon tries not to sigh when you tell him that the Ingram family invited you over to dinner a few months ago. He also does his best to hide his internal yelling when you tell him that you hadn’t accepted due to your cow giving birth.
God bless Queen Bessie for having a complicated-yet-successful calf birthing session.
“What do you think about this one, Simon?” You ask, holding onto one of the smaller branches of a tree that looks just like all the other twenty-something trees that you had been inspecting.
Simon peers up at it, just a couple of inches taller than him. He does a weird motion with his hand to reach the topmost part of the tree so that he can figure whether or not he could reach the highest bough for the star topper.
“It’s nice.”
“Do you think we should get it?” You ask, rubbing some of the pines in between your fingers.
He looks at you, taking in how the winter’s chill has painted your cheeks a ruddy glow. You look so pretty, so absolutely gorgeous and definitely out of place here. Simon thinks maybe you would have done much better not as a Riley, but as an Ingram, living primarily in London where that milksop originally lives. Yeah, it would make sense – coming here to family in the middle of nowhere for the holidays.
You would look gorgeous in your favorite colors and colors that he doesn’t know the proper name of. Silks and satins and linens, fabrics that would suit you as you sit somewhere on a yacht in the south of France, with your toes painted white in contrast to your warmed skin.
Yet you’re here with him, living in the middle of nowhere. You have some chicken shit on the hem of your coveralls.
And yet to him, you are the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.
The man is selfish. Even though he knows that even if London and the south of France would suit you, he wants you here with him. He wants you wherever he is, and wants to give you the world if you’d let him.
“Do you like this one?”
“I love it!”
“Then we’ll get it.”
One of Ingram’s men is called over and begins sawing away at the tree. Later on, when he pays for the tree, he’s told (quite sternly) by one of the cashiers with very prominent crows’ feet that they are to return the tree so that they could recycle it or replant it. They’d be able to get a 20% return on it, but you interject that there’s a big chance that you’d end up keeping the lumber for some project or three.
Simon has no idea what you plan on doing with it, considering pine is a terrible choice for carving anything. But who is he to say anything about that, especially when he takes into account that you’re more capable and knowledgeable about carpentry than he is at this point.
“I’ve got it,” Simon tells one of the workers as he grabs the tree, making sure to do everything himself.
Of course he has to, he thinks as he hauls the 6-foot-plus Christmas tree into the pickup, making sure to properly strap it down. By the time he’s finished, he hops out of the back area, brow raised when he sees Ingram heading towards you. The man has a scarf around his neck, and looks as though he’s also about to leave.
“I just wanted to ask if you and Mrs. Riley would like to come over for tomorrow night with my family,” Ingram asks Simon.
“Ask my wife,” Simon responds to him, dusting any dirt off his gloves.
“I did, and she said to ask you.”
Simon opens his mouth, ready to say something snappy, but then he thinks of you already seated in the truck and your sweet smiling face and the fact that you may… want to spend time with this insufferable Marcus Ingram and his designer coat and whatever expensive cologne he’s currently wearing.
Damn that annoying Hallmark Christmas movie-esque man.
“I’ll talk with her about it,” he tells Ingram before dodging a shoulder pat that the brunette is about to give him.
All he can think about is what you had said earlier at breakfast, about everything being a little better with a sausage or two. Ghost internally cries. He only has one.
---
The man has always wanted to give you the world, but it seems that in your farm cabin in the middle of assfuck nowhere, you’ve given him it all plus some.
Although the drive back home is still filled with your cheery chattering, he doesn’t talk that much. It isn’t like he talks very much to begin with, but most of the time, he simply nods while you drive, only gently reminding you that you need both of your hands on the steering wheel when you start your animated gesticulating.
Simon doesn’t want you to feel put on the spot, so even though he doesn’t have the heart to talk a bit more, he can’t help but sulk internally. You’re a very beautiful, lovely, young woman and he understands that other people find you attractive. It makes sense if others hit on you or ask you out, and in that annoying milksop’s defense, he at least invited him.
Then again, now he’s annoyed, considering that Ingram could have asked you directly instead of asking permission from your husband– what was this, the 14th century? It’s not like he’s your father either. What the hell.
He does his best to not gaslight himself out of feeling the way he does. Simon is aware that he feels shitty and he feels possessive over you, and that makes him feel even more wretched than he already does. The Englishman is more than aware that you had agreed to wedding him for the sake of better prospects, and he does his best to make peace with the fact that that may also mean you finding someone else.
It makes sense.
He’s allowed to grieve the beginning of the end and he’s allowed to appreciate the time you’ve spent with him.
“Simon,” you call out to him, his eyes blinking for a second as he stares at the crushed pine-cone ornament he has in his hand. “Simon, are you alright?”
He glances over to you as you stand some feet away, a tray of freshly-made biscuits and steaming tea in your hands. As soon as you set it down onto the coffee table, you’re walking over with a frown, taking his large, pinecone ornament-crushing hand in your own.
“Simon, did you hurt yourself–”
“S’fine,” he tells you as he gathers some of the broken pieces of the pine scales from the ground. He wouldn’t want your puppies Maya and Caramel accidentally choking on them. “I’m sorry I broke your tree ornament.”
The man isn’t stupid and neither are you. He can feel your eyes boring into his broad back when he removes the ribbon from the cone before he chucks it into the fireplace. The flames crackle and snap at the new substance, and there’s the faintest aroma of pine oils mixing into the air.
“Simon.”
He doesn’t answer, continuing with hanging a few more of your ornaments onto the tree. You had taken such great care to do this yourself, and he is about to make sure that this is the best damn Christmas tree that the United Kingdom has ever (or will never) see. He’s pretty certain that this one would rival whatever celebrity feature is shown on Architectural Digest or whatever it’s called. He’ll make you proud.
“Simon.”
The man pauses, looking over to where you’re standing on the other side of the Christmas tree, a stern expression on your face. In the living room, the lighting isn’t exactly the brightest, save for the cozy glow of the fire, the Christmas tree fairy lights, and the TV playing some old Disney Christmas cartoon. Sighing, he turns to you, already internally wincing and preparing for an upcoming sermon.
“Simon, what is it? What’s wrong?”
He doesn’t expect you to walk back to him, taking his hand in yours once more.
“Did you want to have dinner with the Ingrams tonight?” He asks, to which you continue frowning.
“You’re not really answering the question, Simon.”
The man presses his lips together, studying your face and the soft contours of your cheeks, the slope of your nose, and the plush of your mouth. As usual, words don’t come easy to him, even when you give his hand a reassuring squeeze. There’s just the TV, which is now playing some cheesy Christmas romcom that involves a lumberjack somewhere in Central Park.
“Simon,” you start, voice gentle as though not to spook him, “is this about Marcus?”
Even the way that you say the man’s name makes his stomach twist in a way that he decides he hates. Simon Riley hates the way that Ingram’s name sounds like coming from you. Ashamed, he nods at your words, unable to add anything more of substance as to why this is exactly about Marcus.
“Simon…”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
“Simon, that isn’t it,” you say, giving his hands a squeeze with both of yours. “Are you worried that I like him? That I’ll leave him for you?”
The Englishman doesn’t know what to say exactly or even how to react, because you’ve wrapped up what he’s afraid of and presented it to him all neat and tidy. That exactly what he’s afraid of, and you’ve summed it up nicely. He wonders with a derisive little chuckle if he’s that easy to read without his face mask; Simon’s fingers itch for Ghost’s cover, wanting to hide himself from the world, and most especially from you.
He doesn’t even realize that he’s looking down at the ground and his fuzzy slippers until your hands are cupping his face, tilting it up just a bit.
Simon’s aware that he must appear like a child, being coddled and told that everything is alright. But goodness, if it doesn’t feel lovely to be touched like this and held in such a manner that gives him the slight sliver of hope that things aren’t what he fears to be.
“Simon, I’m not leaving you for him. I don’t like him either, if that’s what’s been on your mind,” you explain to him, thumb gently rubbing over what may likely be the beginning of stubble. “I’m not going anywhere, Simon.”
The soldier’s hand rests on the side of your elbow, eyes blinking tiredly down at you.
As much as he wishes he could say that he’s a free man, he really isn’t. Joining the military had been his own fucked up way of coping with his own childhood trauma, and killing in the military had been his alpha male version of therapy. He knows well enough with the sessions that Captain Price had sent him to that he has a very, very long way to go.
Simon is more than aware of that, and he knows that now he doesn’t just live for himself or for his team. As terrible as it is, but your face is what flashes through his mind before he delivers a killing blow or shot – he does this to survive to make it back to you. Seeing your face helps him get through things, to numb the reality of what he does in order to see your pretty smile in the flesh.
He’s never been a free man, no express carte blanche in the way that his heart squeezes whenever he thinks of you. And to be honest, he’s not about to complain about it, either. The lack of freedom when it comes to caring for you has never felt so sweet.
It’s just that at the end of the day, his own little ego is easily bruised. It’s just unfortunate that it had to by that milksop sod that looks like he stepped out of an annoying Hallmark Christmas movie.
Simon Riley is not interested in having some man teach his wife about the meaning of Christmas.
“Are you sure?”
The man bites the inside of his cheek as soon as those words tumble from his mouth, internally groaning at how incredibly juvenile and childish that sounds. Embarrassing, really.
“I’m sure,” you tell him, caressing his cheeks.
And then you’re going on your tippy toes, and as much as he wishes to remain steadfast, he can’t leave you hanging, could he? No, he’s a gentleman, and so he leans down to meet you halfway, lips pressing against yours.
One of his arms wraps around your middle, holding you to him as though embracing a dream. He may as well be, he thinks to himself as your lips move against him in a sweet, chaste motion. The man sighs against you in the kiss, tasting honey and chocolate from your lips along with several biscuits he knows you’ve already eaten.
“Love,” he murmurs against your lips when you both pull away for a breath. “Don’t leave.”
You smile, pecking the corner of his mouth as your fingers tangle in the short locks of his hair.
“And where exactly will I go? Simon, you’re the one who does the leaving. Don’t you know I miss you?”
He feels a bit bad about that. It’s not an uncommon knowledge that most military marriages usually end in failure due to poor communication skills and infidelity. Although your marriage seems to be that of a relatively different basis, he would like to believe the both of you communicate pretty well and, well– He doesn’t dare dream of cheating on you. He doesn’t want you to feel however way his mother may have felt when she was married to his bastard father, and– And Simon feels terrible in the thought of you actually missing him.
He feels horrid for feeling good that you miss him when he’s gone.
“You missed me?” He asks, the words sounding much more demanding and rough than how silly and stupid it had sounded, forming in his brain.
“I did,” you respond, eyes searching his. “I do. I miss you when you get caught up in those thoughts of yours.”
The man snorts, leaning in to plant a brief kiss on the plush curve of your lips.
“Greedy. You just want my complete attention, is that it?”
You smile, fingers fisting the collar of his ugly Christmas sweater. XXXL and it’s actually too large. You had overestimated his size by a kilometer and a half, but he had stated that it’s comfortable since it’s very loose. Makes sense, since he could also layer other stuff underneath it.
“Yes, I do,” you murmur, pulling him down to kiss you again.
Compared to the previous ones, this one takes a turn from being chaste to a complete one-eighty. The exact moment your fingernails gently scrape against the back of his neck, he’s squeezing your body up against his and you’re pushing him down onto the ground. For a moment, the man thinks you’re pushing him away figuratively until you’re straddling him onto the soft rug, your lips back on his.
He groans at the way you move your lips as though you’re trying to coax something out of him, and if you are– then you’re doing a really good job. You’re doing a really, really good job because he’s starting to get hard as he kisses you back, tongue swiping over your lower lip as though requesting entrance. The exact moment you allow it, he’s sliding in, both hands resting on your waist to squeeze as he tastes honey in your mouth.
The second you pull away from the kiss, saliva attaching your lips together, he knows he’s done for.
You have the sweetest flush on your cheeks, eyes filled with desire and lips kiss-swollen.
To Simon Riley, you look like a dream and very well may be his dream, because you so happen to plague them quite often. In the night, your presence in his subconscious merely teases him with the reality of being separated by land and sea. And now?
“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes out, thumb tracing the soft dampness of your lips.
“Thank you,” you tell him with a cheeky smile. “Grew it all m’self.”
With a snort, he gives your waist a squeeze, earning a huff from you. Eyes falling half-lidded, you grind your hips back and forth tentatively, and Simon closes his eyes at the friction. Even when separated by several lyrics of warm flannel, you feel good, and he swears he can feel the heat of your cunt against his rapidly-hardening dick.
The muscle in his chest jumps a little at the thought of having you now, right by the fireplace, right by the Christmas tree and the TV playing the Disney Christmas Rugged Bear .
Neither of you are under the influence of alcohol, neither of you are in the dark. Sure it isn’t very bright, but with the glow of the Christmas lights and the fireplace, there is the warmest, most saccharine glow that paints you with a limning akin to pre-Raphaelite art. He’s enraptured, and he can only stare.
“I want you,” he confesses, fingers grasping at the back of your shirt. “Badly.”
When you shudder, the size of your pupils betraying your want, he feels his dick twitch shamefully in his boxers. While your body says that you desire him just as much, you haven’t said anything verbally, and Simon isn’t the type to push anyway. The man always craves constant validation and encouragement before moving forward with you, and even were he not, he’s not about to pressure you into something that you don’t wish for.
Especially something like this–
“I think of you every night,” you tell him, your hands resting over his firm pectoral muscles and giving it a playful squeeze. He can’t help the little smile that pulls at his face at the sensation, but his brows knit together at your words.
Surely, you don’t mean– Surely, what you do mean is missing him and hugging him at night. He understands. You run cold while he runs too warm, and you have this habit of hugging pillows and hugging him so it makes sense. It makes sense!
“But my fingers are never enough, Simon,” you murmur, rocking back and forth atop him. “I think of you when I’m trying to get off, when I rub myself– I just touch my clit, y’know, because my fingers can’t properly fill me the way yours do. So I just settle for rubbing myself, trying to remember what it feels like to have you in me.”
His mouth runs dry.
Simon can almost picture you in the bed you shared last night, your fingers plugging up your cunt and grunting in frustration. Sweat glossing over your forehead, lips parted as you pant out whispers of his name.
“I don’t think about anything or anyone else, Simon, just you.”
He inhales sharply.
“It’s only you, Simon. I want you.”
“Yes,” he whispers out, words rushed as he surges forward to kiss you again.
It’s hurried and rushed and desperate. Months of not having seen you piled atop the delicate situation of do-we-or-do-we-not like each other had been blown up out of proportion. Does he feel a bit embarrassed that his overly-sensitive male ego had been immediately bruised by seeing that Ingram fellow be all-too-friendly with you? Yes. But he realizes now as he kisses you, your fingers in his hair and his rough hands sliding under his shirt, is that he has no issue with you.
It’s one thing to be obsessive and a whole other to be possessive.
All he wants to do is hold you; he’ll worry about beating the brakes off Ingram later.
“Please, Simon,” you murmur into the kiss, only to pull away and yank off your sweater over your head. The man works on helping you as you laugh at the several layers of clothing you have on, but he leans back in to press a kiss to your shoulder once he’s finally got you in your underwear.
“Fuck, you’re so pretty,” he murmurs, making short work of removing his own clothes. “So pretty.”
You smile at him bashfully as though he’s the first person ever that’s told you that, but in reality, he’s the only person that matters. So you tilt his chin up so you can peck his lips a few times, his hands moving to your waist to squeeze there again.
“You’re quite pretty yourself, Simon,” you whisper, turning your head to the side to kiss along his neck, trimmed nails grazing up and down the sensitive skin of his lower back.
The man shivers, a huff escaping him.
“What, this old, scarred body?”
You laugh into his neck, planting a kiss atop one of the healed-over scars running over his collarbone. Bit of a blown-up car , is what he had told you before. And the one that your fingers are gently stroking along his back: knife wound .
“Yes,” you tell him, sucking a blossoming bruise just below his collarbone. He inhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut. “This old, scarred body. Sorry, did you want me to say handsome instead?”
As you grind your ass down onto his barely-covered cock, he groans, fingers tangling in your hair as he tugs your head back. You grin up at him, eyes half-lidded and pupils betraying want before he leans in, giving your lower lip a gentle bite.
“You could call me whatever you want.”
And then his hands are finally, finally on your ass. The soft moan that leaves you when he squeezes has precum leaking out of his slit, and he doesn’t have anything left in him to care. He moves you back and forth along the length of his dick, your arms around his neck as his fingers slip under your panties.
Laying back down, you’re both chest-to chest, even as you hide your face in his neck. With one hand tilting your ass up, his other disappears past your underwear, fingers lightly tracing over the damp petals of your hole. He nearly groans at how wet you are, and the gentle bite of your nails in his flesh simply has two of his finger pads circling your entrance.
“ Simon ,” you murmur, and he shivers when your eyelashes bat against the sensitive skin of his neck.
(He realizes at this moment, at around 6:45 in the evening with Disney’s Christmas Rugged Bear playing in the background and snow starting to fall, that of all the things he could be called: Ghost, Lieutenant, beautiful, handsome… Of all of the nicknames and adjectives used to describe him, the way you breathe his name against his skin is all he wants and all he ever needs to be.
Just Simon.)
“I’m here, pretty,” he tells you, being very careful as he slides a finger into you.
He curses at how hot and tight you are, your walls clenching and sucking him in. The Englishman wonders how he’ll be able to fit himself in you later, so he reminds himself he has to be thorough with stretching and preparing you now.
Two fingers turn out to be a lot, and although you’re taking it like a champ, he knows he has to get a third in you. Even as you whine, pawing at him for him to just get it over and done with already, he knows better. Sure, he wants to simply slide you down onto his dick, but Simon isn’t about to break his wife like that.
Not yet, at least.
“Simon, c’mon,” you beg, breathless and nearly drooling with want as he very carefully pumps his three thick fingers in and out of your cunt. You squeeze around him, slick dripping down to his knuckles as you kiss at his neck. “Please, I can’t– you can’t make me wait anymore, I want it– Want you– C’mon, please , I waited for you so patiently–”
He gently shushes you by planting a kiss to the corner of your sweet, begging little mouth.
“Alright, alright.”
Ghost makes simple work of ridding you of your bra and underwear, his eyes riveted to the damp spot on your panties.
Groaning against your chest, he sucks one of your nipples into his mouth, his hands cupping the space beneath your tits. He had been dreaming about this for quite some time, even imagining the goddamn breakfast eggs. He had gone so low, he thinks to himself, but the payoff is quite– well, it’s nice. So he continues laving his pink tongue over you, switching over to your other nipple to give it the same treatment.
He continues kissing and sucking and licking like a man starved and he may as well be. Distance makes the heart grow fonder and clearly, the dick grow harder. He should be embarrassed, but he’s past that now, feeling some form of validation in the way that your fingernails are digging into the meat of his biceps.
The way that you croon, breathing out his name always does wonders to him.
There’s something about your sweet, girlish manners that gets him going. He reminds himself that even though you seem soft and small in comparison to him, you’re incredibly strong and self-sufficient. Hell, you survive running a farm all by yourself, and have figured out half the things yourself.
He recalls the time you had called him the week you had built the dining table set yourself, your words all mashed and squished together in excitement. Simon hadn’t really understood what you were saying – his brain just did its best to pick up that you weren’t in any bad situation (since you were so rushed and half-yelling) and that “myself, did it.” He didn’t know what half of it meant until he arrived home about two weeks later, and he finally understood what you meant at the time.
You’re strong enough to crush him, and although he wouldn’t exactly mind his head being squashed between your thighs, he still has a lot of fantasies he wishes to fulfill with you.
“Gorgeous,” he murmurs, planting open-mouthed kisses all along your sternum as his large hands rock your body up and down his clothed cock. “All mine.”
“Y-Yes,” you breathe out, shuddering at the lick he gives the side of your breast. “I’m all yours, Simon, no one else’s.”
The rumble in his chest is almost like that of a satisfied cat, and he quickly shucks off his boxers. The want in your eyes as you stare at his cock sends a shiver down his spine. It’s always so satisfying to know that you are wanted and desired, and it’s a whole other thing when you’re both on equal terms.
Your fingers wrap around his cock, a low groan escaping him. It isn’t just the friction, but how he watches as your fingertips barely touch with how girthy he is. Soon enough, both of your hands are stroking him, and his fingers are in your hair, giving you a gentle tug.
“Enough of that, love, ‘less you want me to cum already.”
To be fair, he shouldn’t be too worried about that. As disgusting as it sounds, he’s had a lot saved up for you and he’s been all hopped up on caffeine to get him through the night. He’ll keep going until you tap out.
“Fine,” you grunt, lifting your hips.
The man’s large, calloused hands are on your waist to support you as you reach a hand back for his cock. Positioning it between your legs and guiding yourself down, you can’t help the shudder that licks along your back when the warm tip meets your slicked-up opening.
Although he has the urge to close his eyes, he keeps them open. He’s been away for a while, and God knows how long his next deployment will be. Last time he checked, it would be around just two months, but two months can easily turn into three or six or who knows. He’s not wasting a single moment around you when he’s waited so long and when you’ve waited so long for him.
By the time your cunt’s tight little ring of muscles relax, your hips are sliding down, forcing yourself to take him several inches into you. The way your body tenses up and your brows knit together does not go unnoticed by your husband, and his large hands move under your ass to support your weight so you aren’t in too much of a strain.
“Love, are you al–”
“Yes, yes, yes, I am,” you breathe out, your hands on his burly chest as you do your best to even out your breathing.
Although he doesn’t really seem to buy it, you focus on relaxing before pushing down, half-fighting the strong grip he has that’s preventing you from slamming all the way down. At some point, his hands are back on your waist to support there instead, allowing you to sink down further until you’re halfway seated on his cock.
There isn’t much that you can do, because there’s only so much you can take in this position. So you settle for that, leaning forward and moving your hips slowly. Your kiss-swollen lips part at the sensation of his fact cock rubbing all along your sensitive walls. There’s a little sheen of sweat on your forehead, and he doesn’t know where to look.
He wishes to gaze upon your beautiful face, your gently bouncing tits, and the spot where his cock is being swallowed up over and over.
“Fuck, gorgeous, you’re so–”
He’s at a loss for words, a groan escaping him as he watches you.
You’re doing such a good job for him, taking so much of his cock when the position is more than taxing on you. It’s obvious you want to take him into your sweet cunt completely, but it’s practically impossible with this angle. So he lets you enjoy yourself, bouncing up and down on his cock with your head thrown back and your nails digging crescent-shaped marks into his chest.
“Feels so good, Simon,” you murmur, voice sounding as though you’re tipsy on some wine. “I missed you s-so much…”
He finds himself surging forward and you yelp at that, both of you somewhat sitting upright. The Englishman supports your weight, not wanting you to be shoved down all the way onto his cock. In this angle, both of you are nearly chest-to-chest and your arms are wrapped loosely around his neck.
“I missed you too, love,” he tells you, a rumbling groan escaping the man’s lips. He holds you upright, hands acting as a seat for you as he starts to thrust upwards.
The way his name rolls from your mouth so sweetly has him moving forward, claiming your mouth with his as he feeds his cock in and out of your hole. You moan into the kiss, fingers pulling at his short hair as your cunt is stretched with his sheer girth.
At some point, you’re half slumped against him, your tits pressing against his chest.
He feels his blood boil with desire at the sensation of your pebbled nipples grazing against his skin, and he knows it must feel good for you because your pussy is clamping down so hard around him. The man sucks in air through his clenched teeth, hips bucking up faster to have you bouncing up and down onto his cock.
“Oh God, s-so big–” You gasp out, and it isn’t until you shudder, your eyes wide open and mouth parted in an empty scream. Your cunt clutches around him so hard, your body trembling and he just realized that oh fuck– fuck, you’re cumming.
He holds you tightly to him, hands still supporting your weight as you gasp, your climax taking over you. As you sob out his name, the man carefully leans you forward, tipping you over to lay onto your back. Simon kisses your shoulder and the side of your neck, his rough hands smoothing over your skin as he holds himself to you to ease you through the aftershocks.
“I’ve got you,” he tells you, voice rough yet gentle.
When you tug him towards you, he kisses you.
It’s very wet and slow, his hands on your waist giving you a little squeeze that has you groaning once more.
“Simon,” you murmur against his lips.
“Yes?” He responds, pulling away. You chase him with your needy mouth, and instead plant kisses against the side of his neck. The soldier sighs at the touch; he’s so content here, making love with you by the fireplace.
“You didn’t cum,” you tell him.
“I don’t have to.”
The man is serious, though. He doesn’t need to cum. The fact that he was able to get you off so easily is more than enough for his ego to get off.
“But Simon ,” you whine out, dragging the last syllable of his name as he groans playfully. “I want you to cum.”
“Yeah?” He snorts.
“Yeah,” you murmur, lifting your hips and wrapping your legs around the man’s middle.
With no malice whatsoever, Simon narrows his eyes at you, but you do not look at him, your gaze instead focused to where he’s lodged in between your thighs. Wordlessly, you move your body to the best of your ability with the angle that he’s got you in.
“Simon, c’mon,” you breathe out, pleading with your husband. “I want you to feel good.”
You continue rocking your body against his, and his eyes flutter shut at the sensation. His hands move up to your tits, squeezing them together and running his thumbs over your hard nipples.
“Do you know how lonely I get when you’re gone? I’d be less lonely if– ah– oh god, big big big big –” You gasp, sliding your hips down to get as much as you possibly can of him. Your eyes are almost crossed, and he lets out a haggard breath as he watches you.
As he leans back a little, he can only watch as you lift your legs up, your arms looking beneath your thighs and hands spreading your pussy lips wide. It’s as though you could stretch yourself further somehow, as though his fat cock isn’t already doing the job for you both.
“Please, Simon, I want it, don’t let me be lonely by myself… If you left me a baby, I would–”
And then he’s slamming deep into you, earning a shriek so loud that it wakes the puppies up in the other side of the living room.
You’re at a loss for words as Simon presses his hands behind the meat of your thighs, his hips slamming into you. There are hearts in your eyes as you gasp and groan, tugging at the man that’s forcing your cunt open in his shape. He feels so good inside you and you feel so tight and perfect around him.
“So that’s what you want,” he breathes out, the loud sound of skin smacking against skin audible. “You want me to knock you up? You want me to fuck a baby into you?”
Somehow, as though this hadn’t been your doing from the start, you blush. It’s such a pretty shade on you, and the illumination from the fireplace only adds the most gorgeous glow on your skin. He can imagine it already as he stares down at you, watching the way your cunt swallows up his cock. He groans, watching that sliver of pink clutch onto his massive cock as though you don’t want him to leave your pussy. So he drives into you over and over again, balls slapping heavy against your tailbone as he watches your tits bounce.
Fuck.
Your tits are already perfect as is, perfect for him to– he leans down, tongue laving over the swell of your breast. Your tits are perfect, but he can’t imagine how gorgeous you’ll look with your breasts fat and your hips all round. You’d be so adorable, waddling around like a cute little penguin with pink cheeks and a huffy, cranky demeanor.
Fuck.
He needs to retire, the thinks to himself. Even though you’re a very capable woman, he doesn’t want you to be alone with a baby.
The man has to suck in air through his clenched teeth when your eyes open once more, looking up at him with so much desire and lust and affection that it sends a shiver down his spine. He knows that it’s hard enough to just stay put and now blow his load in your sweet little pussy, but it’s something else when both of you are intimate with affection and– and if you continue looking at him like that with that sweet little smile–
“ Simon ,” you choke out, legs trembling as he pushes you down into a mating press.
It’s so tight and he’s so deep inside you, the heavy tip of his cock kissing your cervix. You cry out his name, nails scraping against the skin on his neck as he continues to pummel your hole. He’s molded you so perfectly for his shape and anything more or anything less wouldn’t work out. The man has formed your cunt to take him perfectly, and he fucks you so easily, slamming into your needy pussy over and over again. It’s practically a miracle, but you’ve fit his massive cock into you fully.
“I’m g’nna c-cum, Simon,” you whisper desperately, almost sounding terrified at the sensation of an incoming release. You can’t help it, not when he’s grinding himself into you, your clit stimulated by the rough patch of well-trimmed hair at the base of his cock.
“Fuck,” he grunts, barely pulling out now. He just withdraws a few inches before slamming back inside you, his balls feeling tight. “Fuckin’ cum for me, cum for your man, darling.”
You sob as he slams into you, your body snapping from the sensation of pleasure washing over you in a drowning wave. He practically snarls at that, fucking into your clutching pussy harder to fight the way that you’re spasming around his cock.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck– Take it, yes, yes– Take it!” He growls out, slamming into you so roughly that you would have slid out if not for his strong grip. “Fucking take it, yes– fuck–!”
This is it, he thinks to himself. He’s going to cum so deep inside your womb that it’ll be impossible for you to not get pregnant. He reaches down, his hand resting on your lower abdomen. As he feels himself moving beneath that soft pudge of fat, he knows that that’s where his seed will take root. In the next few months, he knows that his child will be growing in there.
Simon thrusts into you one, two, three times as rope after rope of his hot seed fills your cunt up. In the fourth stroke he pulls-then-pushes in from root to tip with a wet squelch before stilling.
The both of you are panting, bodies sweaty and intertwined so tightly that no one would know where one begins and the other ends.
He has his face buried into the crook of your neck as he holds your still-trembling form. The man feels bad; he knows he was very rough with you, so he gently rubs his thumbs into your hips and sides.
“Are you alright, love?” He asks, your face cupped in his hands. There’s a warm, tender affection on his scarred face as he watches you.
You look absolutely exhausted, but there’s still that sweet, know-it-all smile on your face.
“Mm,” you murmur, looking at him through your half-lidded eyes. “M’yeah.”
“ M’yeah ?” He questions with a little grin, leaning down to peck your lips before gathering you up in his arms. “You need to be cleaned up and resting.”
Although you protest and whine profusely, he continues with it anyways. You’re wiped down gently and some ointment is put on your lower back. He knows you’re going to be feeling it tomorrow, so he already makes plans to get up early and feed the chickens and the goats so you wouldn’t feel compelled to.
“Simon,” you murmur, your legs somehow spread around his waist as you’re pressed up against the bathroom tile wall. Your voice sounds slow and dozy again, like you’re drunk off him or something, and he leans in to kiss your sweet mouth. “I’m serious.”
“Yeah?” He asks you, rocking back and forth into your cum-drenched cunt. Sloppy second has never felt so good to him.
Your tongue lolls out at some point and he sucks it into his mouth. He pulls you down as far as you possible can go on his cock, and so much of his cum oozes out of you, trickling down to his balls.
“Are you really jealous of Marcus?”
He huffs, not really amused that you’d bring him up now of all times, but he merely thrusts into your cunt a little harder. You whine at that, eyes practically filled with hearts at the rough sensation.
“Don’t be… He’d never match up to you, Simon,” you tell him, arms around his neck as he fucks into your cunt slowly, as if he has all the time in the world. “I don’t like him like I like you.”
“You like me, then, is that it?”Simon teases, grunting as you give a half-assed glare and squeeze around him.
“I do like you.”
“Thank goodness,” he chuckles. “It would be awkward if you didn’t.”
“Well?” You ask him a few minutes later, when he’s deposited his second load into your cunt.
He shivers.
“Well what?
“Well, do you like me too?” You ask, and Simon feels bad that he wasn’t able to figure that out from earlier.
“I like you,” he says, probably a bit too quickly, but he doesn’t really care. “Very much.”
“Thank goodness,” you tell him with a playful grin on your face. The man very carefully sets you down onto the floor, then begins to gently wash you down again. “It would be awkward if you didn’t like me back.”
Simon rolls his eyes, careful in the way that he tends to your body. He makes sure to wash you as thoroughly as he could, fingers gentle as he washes the outer portion of your vagina. He knows you’re swollen and that the area is tender from the way you shy away from his touch, but he makes sure that you’re going to be alright later.
He still manages to wring out another orgasm from your body, your nails digging into his tattooed forearm as you cried out his name and he sucked bruises into your neck.
Then he finishes washing you both down and works on moisturizing you both. You look over at him as he wipes the rest of the lotion he’s used on you, onto his own skin. He can already tell you’re frowning at the paltry amount he’s slathering onto himself sparingly.
There’s a little snort that leaves you and he reaches down, your jaw in his large hand as he pecks your lips before the both of you put on your warm clothing.
At some point, the both of you make your way back to the living room, both snuggled up against each other on the couch.
You grin, sliding in under his sweater and sticking your head out of the hole.
“So this is the real reason why you bought this oversized sweater, eh?” He asks, taking a biscuit from the tray and biting half of it. When some crumbs fall atop your hair, he leans forward, blowing some of them off.
“Mmm, maybe,” you murmur, making yourself comfortable against his chest.
He doesn’t remember exactly how or why you manage to fall asleep so quickly, but it’s likely because of the amount of times he had made you orgasm.
So Simon Riley simply leans back, a contented sigh escaping him as he rests his hand onto your back. As you fidget a bit on his chest, he smiles. On either side of you are your two puppies, both asleep with their ears twitching. Simon wonders what the two are dreaming about, but it seems to be good dreams – neither of them are making sad little whiny puppy sounds.
He leans his head back against the couch cushions as the fireplace crackles in the corner of the living room and classic Disney Christmas shorts continue playing.
As he slowly falls asleep with you on his chest, he wonders if the two puppies are dreaming about a possible baby growing in your belly. He knows that many animals, especially dogs, are extra aware and extra protective around pregnant people.
Simon breathes out a happy sigh as he holds you in his arms.
The fireplace is crackling, Christmas audios are playing faintly, and the soft patter of snow is audible outside.
Oh , he thinks to himself with a little laugh, his eyes heavy with sleep courting him. He’s amused with himself as he realizes that you and your farm have just taught him, a gruff man, the meaning of Christmas.
Oh well , he thinks, eyes fluttering shut as he holds you to him.
This is the one Hallmark Christmas movie he’s willing to tolerate.