Iris (Mike Bravo Ops 1)

Saint takes the decision out of my hand when he pushes me back down and pins me with his big hand over my chest. “If this is my only chance, I want to see as much of this body as I can. Stay still.”

My usual instinct and retort to that would be to throw him off me and pin him down instead—show him who’s really in charge here. But I don’t.

I want Saint to look at me. To use me. I want my body to get him off. The desire to be the one in control in the bedroom is surprisingly absent with him.

Usually, with women, I fill the societal pressure of needing to be “the man”—to sink into the heteronormative and gender expected role. With men, it’s an ego thing, I think, my competitive side coming out to play. Which is probably why I’ve always found sex with men more exciting. I don’t have to be in control always, but I like the fight.

Most of my relationships have been with women because there’s that emotional attachment, and at the end of the day, the person you spend the rest of your life with needs to be emotionally close.

Sex is sex. It’s fun, it feels amazing. But, for that right person, sex with anyone else wouldn’t compare.

I’ve never felt that deeper connection with another man before, but as Saint lifts my shirt and urges me to sit up so he can strip it off me, all the while not breaking eye contact, I get the unnerving impression that he would be easy to fall for.

It only takes me a second to dismiss that, though. It’s easy to do when Saint pops the button on my pants because all I can think about is what he’ll do when we’re both completely naked.

I reach for his shirt, but he catches my hand hard, his face distorts, no longer looking turned on but scared, and then he glances away like he’s ashamed.

“Hey.” I cup his face to bring his gaze back to me. “What is it?”

“I should warn you. About my body.”

It takes a second for his implication to register. “Your scars?”

He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to.

“This is where I got stabbed.” I lift my left arm above my head and roll slightly to the side so I can run my finger along a flat scar sitting along my ribs. “Cut right into my rib bone, but I was lucky. If they’d gone between the ribs, I’d be dead. On my right leg, I have multiple white lines from being hit with shrapnel. We all have scars, Saint.”

“I know, but mine are … everywhere. And there’s a lot of them. They’re still bumpy and red, and—”

“I don’t care.”

“You say that, but—”

“Do you want to leave your shirt on? I’m okay with that. I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do.” As much as I’d love to see his body on full display.

“Are you sure?”

“This is about getting off. You can’t get off if you’re uncomfortable.” I wriggle beneath him. “I, however, am only comfortable when I’m completely naked, so you have some work to do.” I point to my pants.

Saint lets out a relieved breath, like he was worried about his clothes being a deal breaker.

Would I love to see him naked? Of fucking course. But I’m not going to push him outside his comfort zone. This isn’t a therapy session.

I let Saint undress me, watching him as he slowly peels off my pants and then my boxer briefs.

When my cock springs free, Saint’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, and precum leaks from my tip, dribbling onto my stomach.

“Of course your dick is perfect,” he murmurs. “Just something else you can be cocky about.”

I snort. “Literally. Do I get to see yours?”

“Are you going to compare? Want to get out the measuring tape?”

“Nah, I’m a firm believer in the size doesn’t matter camp. I’ll compare muscles, strength, and target accuracy—you know, things you can actually work at and change—but why is it if you insult a man’s cock, you’re threatening his masculinity? I’ve been with some feminine-as-fuck men before with bigger dicks than me. I’ve also been with the manliest of men who couldn’t find my prostate if I drew them a map.”

Saint smiles down at me. “Are you done with your little rant that was supposed to reassure me but has somehow added more pressure to make this good for you?”

“Hey, at least it distracted me enough to calm down a bit. I swear at the slightest touch, I was ready to explode.”

“Let’s hope I can get you there again, then.” Saint’s fingers wrap around my shaft and give a hard pump.

My breath gets caught in my throat, and I thrust upward into his hand. “That’s a good place to start.”