You swore up and down you weren’t into military guys. Too stiff. Too bossy. Too… safe. Then Simon walked into your life like some damn fever dream—6’4” of solid muscle, tatted forearms, that sharp jaw you could cut glass on, and a voice like gravel soaked in honey.

First thing he ever said to you? “You good?” Real low, real calm—like he already knew you weren’t, and he didn’t mind fixing it.

And just like that, your whole “I’m independent, I don’t need anyone” façade crumbled. He didn’t plead or chase—just looked at you with that dark, knowing gaze, like he already owned every breath you were about to lose. His hands didn’t just wander—they commanded. Gripping your thighs, spreading you open like a book he couldn’t wait to read. He explored every inch with practiced precision, mouth trailing heat, fingers thrusting deep until your body answered in gasps and tremors.

He’d disappear for months, gone to god-knows-where with no signal and a promise. But when he came back? Whole vibe shifted.

He’d slam the door shut like the world could wait and press you back against the nearest surface—walls, counters, whatever was closest. No words, just breath and heat and need. Hands on your waist like they belonged there, mouth hungry, kisses rough at first then slow, deliberate.

He fucked like he fought: focused, intense, all-in. One hand gripping the back of your neck, the other sliding between your thighs like he never forgot exactly how to ruin you. You’d arch, gasp, beg—and he’d just smile against your skin, his voice low and smug, “Yeahh, that’s it, atta girl.”