It starts with a shove.

Gaz slams you into the locker hard enough to rattle the metal, one hand gripping the collar of your shirt while the other presses firm to your chest, keeping you pinned. His jaw’s clenched, eyes burning with something between fury and heat.

“You’ve got a death wish, yeah?” he growls. “Running straight into that crossfire like you wanted to take a bullet.”

You grin, breathless, heart still hammering from the mission—or maybe from this. The way his body’s flush against yours. The way you can feel the tension in his frame like a live wire pressed to skin.

“Worked, didn’t it?” you breathe. “You’re looking at me now.”

His gaze drops—slow, deliberate. Down your throat, your chest, pausing right at your belt. You feel his thigh shift, brushing against the ache in your pants you’re not even trying to hide.

He notices.

You see it in the twitch of his jaw, the flicker of interest in his eyes—just before he shoves you harder into the locker.

“You get off on this?” he mutters, voice low. Dangerous. “Getting tossed around, marked up, just to see if I’ll snap?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. The smirk on your face says enough.

He lets out a breath through his nose and steps back a fraction—not much, just enough for his fingers to slide under the hem of your shirt and press into the bruise forming on your ribs. His touch is rough, deliberate, making you suck in a sharp breath.

You shiver.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs.

And then he grabs you.

By the wrist, by the hip, dragging you toward the cot like he’s done this before—like he’s imagined it. You stagger back with him, breath caught somewhere between a moan and a laugh. He sits down, spreading his legs wide. His bulge is obvious now, barely hidden by the fabric of his fatigues.

You’re staring.

He notices that, too.

“On your knees.”

You obey.

Not because he forces you. But because you want to. Need to.

The air between you hums with pressure. You feel it in the way his boot nudges your thigh. The way his hand curls into your hair. He doesn’t move fast. He doesn’t have to. Just sits there like a king, watching you tremble under his gaze, like he knows exactly how tightly you’re wound.

He leans forward, voice a whisper against your ear.

“You’ve been begging for this all day.”

He’s right.

And the worst part?

You still don’t know if he’s going to give it to you—or make you beg harder.