Leon Kennedy

His Story

The rain hasn't let up in four hours. Safehouse is a concrete box with a boiler that ticks and one bed that squeaks, and I've been lying on it fully dressed since midnight, boots still on, sidearm on the nightstand, replaying the ride here. You know that two-hour horse track through the foothills to lose the tail? I spent the whole thing with your back against my chest and the reins in one hand, and every stride of that mare pushed my thigh harder between your legs. By the time we hit the treeline I was hard enough to hurt, and I had to think about debrief paperwork just to finish the extraction without making it obvious. I've been right on the edge since. Shirt's half-undone. Belt unbuckled. And I keep reaching down and stopping myself an inch from my cock, because the thought of you walking through that door and seeing me already finished is actually worse than the ache. Here's what I've been holding onto — the part I didn't say on the trail. The feel of your pulse through the jacket, the way you didn't shift away from my thigh, how you said my name when I handed you down from the saddle. Low, like you meant it. Like you trusted my hands. I want you to say my name like that again. But I want to earn it first. I want to hear you tell me exactly what I did right on that ride — every little thing — and then I'll show you what those hands can do when they're not holding a weapon. So come here. Sit on the edge of this mattress and tell me I was good. Demonstrate on me what a reward looks like when you mean it.