Wolves Wear White

Originally written as a fanfic by me elsewhere. Characters are not my own.

~

Lieutenant Mason was always a little sullen, like a storm was forever brewing behind his dark lashes and a war-hardened gaze. He was the kind of man who carried his burdens like a second skin, buried deep down beneath the surface scars. You saw him often-you were often rostered on to his wing of the clinic. Each time, he'd reveal just enough about the past to make your heart ache for what he kept hidden. Tales of desert heat, blistering sun and empty silence between bursts of gunfire. And when he was in a pleasant mood, he'd ask you questions about your career, or if you were having a good day.

But he never talked about how he ended up in a wheelchair. Never about why he needed constant blood tests, nerve scans, or why he clenched his jaw when you touched certain parts of his back in routine examinations. You didn't ask, he didn't tell. Things could be just as they were.

Today was like any other. You were taking his bloods, keeping your voice light and professional, steady by design. Small talk, pleasantries,

'you're looking well's'

, and asking him to butt out his cigarette whilst you were in the examination room. He sat in his chair, broad shoulders almost concealed under a soft, dark, half-buttoned shirt, sleeves pushed up just enough to squeeze the breadth of his forearms. A tank top clinging beneath, showing just enough of the hair on his chest to draw your eyes and make your fingers twitch with a ridiculous, sinful urge to feel. The veins on his arms. The dark line of his throat. It all pulled at you. You shook your head, trying to ignore it.

You bent over to grab the cuff off of your tray, eyes trained on him in your peripheral vision. That's when you caught it. His eyes dropped, clear as day, to the dip in your neckline. Bold. Lazy.

Wanting.

You could feel his gaze settle there, hot and unashamed. Attention that you hadn't asked for, but was certainly welcome.

You should've called him out. Asked him to stop. Anything.

You didn't.

Instead, you let a small smile play at your lips as you turned back to him, pretending you didn't feel the heat rising to your cheeks.

"Blood pressure first," you murmured politey, looping the cuff around his thick bicep.

Let him look,

you thought.

Let him want.

He deserved something that felt good, for once. And maybe, just maybe, you wanted to be the one to give that to him. To be the thing that helped him forget about the ghosts that kept him awake at night.

"You look nice today," he said suddenly, voice low, velvet.

You glanced up at him, eyes locking onto his blue ones, arching a brow. "I look the same every day. It's kind of the uniform."

He tilted his head, that flirtatious, almost-smile that revealed itself only when you teased him tugging at his lips. "Yeah, maybe, you always look good in white. But today... you look

really

pretty, darling. Do something different to your hair?"

The word

darling

curled in your stomach like smoke. Uninvited. Unapologetic. Your eyes drifted to anywhere but your patient. "I got it cut yesterday," you said steadily.

You turned back to your tray of supplies to cover the sudden heat on your cheeks, but you could feel him still watching. Eyes dragging slowly across your form like he wished he could his tongue.

"I need to draw some blood," you said, voice a little too steady. You reached for his arm, flipping it over so the softer side of his forearm was faced upward. The moment your fingers touched his skin, the room seemed to hold its breath. He was warm. Solid. Still. But his pulse jumped beneath your touch.

You looked up without meaning to.

His face was

just there

--closer than it should've been. His eyes weren't just staring at you. They were

hungry

. Focused. His scent filled your nose: tobacco and gunpowder, undercut by that minty cologne he always wore. That same scent you'd caught faintly every time he left the room, but now it filled your lungs, heavy and masculine and far too intimate. It hit you low in your belly. A soft, tight, traitorous flutter.

You swallowed. "This okay, Mason?"

He nodded slowly. His eyes flicked to your lips.

Then to your neck.

Then back up.

You should've stepped away. You should've said something.

Anything!

But a part of you knew that the tension had been winding tight between you for months now, and you'd be lying if you said you wouldn't jump if the opportunity presented itself. It felt like a dam about to burst. Your body was tuned to every small movement he made.

His hand reached up, slow, deliberate, fingers brushing the white fabric of your collar. He didn't pull yet, he just rested them there, waiting. Asking in silence.

When you didn't move, when your breath caught in your throat,

when you didn't push him away-

he took that as an answer.

He tugged. Just enough. And you let him.

Then he kissed you. Hot, wet, unguarded, open-mouthed. His lips were demanding, his stubble scraping deliciously against your skin as his fingers fisted the fabric near your collarbone. Your knees nearly gave way at the sudden heat of the moment, at the months of tension snapping all at once like a taut bowstring.

It wasn't sweet. It was needy.

But you kissed him back like it had been

your

idea all along.

Suddenly he moved, urgently pulling you into his lap, hands gripping your waist with raw need. You barely had time to let out a gasp before you were tugged down against him, hips anchored to his. The strength in those big arms caught you off guard, but you didn't fight it. You let him guide you, let yourself melt into his body like he needed you as badly as air.

Your thighs bracketed his lap, knees brushing against the cool metal edges of his chair. Heat bubbled and bloomed in your core as you felt the unmistakable hardness beneath you. Hot, close,

rock solid. Some

things below his belt seemingly still worked.

This shouldn't have been the time, nor the place for something like this. But his mouth was on yours, his hands holding you like a lifeline, and all you could think about was how much you wanted to give him

something

that didn't hurt.

So you pulled away, then leaned back in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, voice barely above a whisper. "Do you need me to take care of you, baby?"

He exhaled, shaky and slow, his fingers tightening on your hips.

You pressed your body closer, pressing your breasts up against his chest, slowly rolling your hips against his in a promiscuous display of your desire that teased both of you. His breath stuttered against your neck.

"Let me make you feel good..." you mumbled, mouth grazing his jaw, just under his ear. "Please."

His hands slid up your back--rougher now, needier. One settled between your shoulder blades, the other gripped your hip, locking you in place. You could feel the strain in his body, the weight of everything that he was trying to hold back.

If the circumstances were different--if you weren't on shift, if this wasn't a clinic, if he wasn't stuck in this damn chair--you knew he'd already have you up against the wall. Hard. Fast. Thorough. Fuck you until you couldn't walk straight for a week. There was a time when he probably would've done just that, and the thought made your pulse flutter with want.

But this was just as good. The way he held you, kissed you like you were something he didn't think he'd ever get to touch again. It hurt your heart. It made you want to give him every inch of yourself just to see that fire and determination again. The type could only be found in the eyes of a young soldier.

"You don't have to do this for me," he hummed, forehead pressed to yours, but his voice was strained, like the words were costing him.

You looked down at him, a pang in your chest, cupping his face with your hands, stubble scratching the insides of your thumbs. "I want to. I've wanted to for a long time, Jacob."

His given name on your tongue, in that voice--seemed to break something open in him. His hands roamed again, greedy now, clutching at you like you were something holy. "I don't deserve this," he mumbled against your skin, "But I'm too selfish to let you go now."

"Then don't,"

you whispered.

And from there, he was all hands-urgent and a little frantic, fumbling at the buttons of your uniform like a kid opening a gift on Christmas day that had been dreamed of all December. He groaned in frustration when one refused to yield to his fingers, and you laughed softly, brushing his hands aside to finish the job yourself.

"Let me," you purred, and his hands dropped to your thighs obediently.

"Yes, ma'am," he said with the faintest crooked smile, teasing but genuine, and your heart gave a full flutter in your chest.

Once your uniform was opened up, shoved aside, he couldn't help himself. Moved your bra out of the way. Fabric gone. He cupped your chest immediately, thumbs brushing over your nipples, mouthing at you like a man starved. He moaned against your skin when your fingers tangled into the blond tufts at the back of his head, tongue flicking, sucking--then biting gently, like he couldn't decide if he wanted to worship you or ruin you.

"You're so insatiable," you said breathlessly, watching the way his lashes fluttered closed. "Such a naughty boy..."

His lips paused against your breast, and he made a delicious noise: half-growl, half-whimper. "Only for you...swear to god," he panted.

You smiled, cradling his face in your hands, lifting his chin so he had to look up at you. His cheeks were flushed, his lips kiss-bruised and wet, blue eyes glassy with lust. "You like being told what to do?" you murmured.

His breath caught, chest heaving beneath you. "Yes," he admitted, quiet but honest. "Yeah. I do."

"You gonna be good for me?" you asked, tilting your head, voice thick with the pleasure of control.

He grinned--lopsided, self-deprecating. "A good soldier knows how to follow orders."

The laugh that escaped you was soft and delighted, breath curling over his skin. "And you're being

so

good," you cooed. "My

good

boy."

The contrast lit him up--his entire face going pink at the praise. That same mouth that had been so bold was now parted in surprise. He blinked like he was dizzy, but smiling through it, riding that high of being seen, wanted, told exactly how to please.

"Fuck," he whispered, half-laughing, his voice thick with arousal. "Say that again and I'll melt right here under you."

You leaned in, kissing the tip of his nose. "We can't have that happening, can we?" Your voice was syrupy with praise.

"Touch me."

He obeyed like it was instinct. Tugged your panties down your legs in a hurried, choppy motion, before discreetly shimmying them into his back pocket. One of his hands slid between you, fingers seeking out your sex with purpose. When he found your slick heat, he froze--just for a second.

"You're already soaked for me."

Your hips tilted toward his hand, a soft gasp escaping as the pads of his fingers brushed against your swollen clit. "All your fault," you managed, voice catching. "You did this to me. Now let's see what you're made of,

Lieutenant."

He made a low, broken sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan, and he

moved

--slow at first, careful, but with growing urgency. Pressing in with explorative touch, two fingers rubbed perfectly against your soft walls, each knuckle a delicious friction. Then, he curled them just right, squeezing up against your tender sweet spot, and your body answered before your mouth could. You arched toward him, fisting the front of his singlet, your breath hitching on every stroke.

Your arousal was already leaking onto his palm.

"F-fuck.....Mason..." you sighed, closing your eyes and basking in the sensation of being partway filled with his digits.

He couldn't use his legs, but god--he'd clearly learned how to make the most of what he

could

move. And right now, every bit of that strength was focused on you.

"That's my girl," he grinned. "You're doing so well."

Warmth blossomed in your chest at the affectionate lilt floating in his words. This sort of attention always had a way of unravelling you. It was so unfair.

He inched in deep enough so that the palm of his hand was pressed up against your clit. Then, again-curved his digits strategically. You moaned unbidden, stifling your sounds with the meaty muscle of his shoulder. Little rushes of dopamine started to melt the frays of tension in your body like candlewax.

The weeks, the months--every look, every nearly-there brush of his hand, every moment you

wanted

and didn't take--was melting, inch by inch. You could feel yourself softening, heat spreading through your core in slow, slick pulses. Your thighs tightened around his waist. You couldn't help it.

A few more curls of his fingers, a few more soft moans. He adjusted his approach. Instead of working solely with his fingers: he worked with his entire hand, thrusting upwards so that the heel of his palm was brushing against your bundle of nerves, the motion creating a tandem of sensations as his fingers remained buried in your warmth.

The friction of his hand, the press of his knuckles dragging against soft inner walls, it was all

too much

and somehow

not enough.

The first licks of your release fluttered in your stomach, molten, thick-hot and pooling, gathering low in your belly until your legs began to tremble.

You curled against him, nuzzling the sharp line of his throat, your lips brushing his jaw. Your voice was shaky against his skin. "Mason..."

He read you like a book. "Close?"

"Yes, god yes, so good, Jacob--don't stop...

please don't stop

..."

"I'm not going anywhere." His spare hand tightened at your waist. "Now be a good girl and cum on my fingers."

The praise curled through you like honey poured over hot coals, sticky and golden, impossibly warm. Your body responded as if on cue.

The muscles in your thighs went taut, then slack, then taut again as your orgasm ripped through you, the knot of tension in your conscience finally snapping. Your nerves and skin sung with electric pleasure, your fingers gripping onto his clothes with a white knuckle grip, as if holding onto dear life. You hoped to all hell that this room had some semblance of sound-proofing, because your sweet cries would have been more than slightly incriminating.

He drank up every last sound, every little twitch of your walls as you clamped down onto his fingers with a smirk that was as cocksure as it was amused.

With his clean hand, he ushered your chin upwards, drawing your gaze to his. Then, with an eyebrow raised, as if beckoning your submission, tapped your bottom lip with his forefinger.

"Open wide."

Now much more pliable after being finger-fucked senseless, you obeyed, sticking out your tongue in a lewd, salacious manner. In one pass, he pressed his dirty fingers against the width of your tongue, rubbing back and forth, cleaning your juices off of his skin. You groaned in pleasure, closing your eyes, before sealing your lips around his two middle fingers, sucking and licking your mess from him.

"You are just the most perfect filthy girl for me, aren't you?" he hummed, words almost shy behind the swagger. He didn't quite have the guts to tell you outright, but he meant every syllable. You were truly a special woman, more than just a body to warm his lap.

He could not believe he was lucky enough to have you like this.

One strong hand slipped beneath the curve of your thigh, adjusting you with surprising ease, guiding your hips closer. The other hand fumbled briefly at his belt before pausing, his brows knitting in irritation. "Can you...?" he asked softly, not embarrassed, just honest.

You smiled, touched by his quiet vulnerability, and helped him unbuckle the stubborn leather strap as you had done so many times, only this time it was far more intimate than clinical. His eyes never left your face while you worked.

When you tugged him out of his underwear, you paused. His dick was hard enough to convince you without a shadow of a doubt that his paralysis only affected his thighs and below. Hot, heavy and aching, you squeezed at the base experimentally, smiling when his eyes half-closed in relief and he breathed out a curse.

You guided his cock to your slit, rubbing the puffy head through your folds, gathering some wetness, before stopping, letting his tip

just

kiss against your entrance.

He twitched, and looked up at you, trying to hide the pleading in his eyes. "What's the hold up, darling?"

Glee bubbled in your stomach. "You need more of me already, huh?" you mused, a light tease woven into your voice. "You are

so

greedy. I don't know how much more I can give."

You were not

entirely

fibbing. Your pussy was still sensitive, and your brain was still soft around the edges, but all of that was easily overcome by the anticipation of getting to ride him.

"I'm a voracious man, sweetheart," he leaned in, whispering in your ear. "I've got a big appetite, and it has been a while for me, after all..."

There was a playful note there, but it was undercut with something deeper. A kind of need that came from more than just the loins--it came from longing, from loneliness, from months of wanting you in silence. From months of no company save for his right hand.

Sudden hesitation tingled in your chest. "Are you sure we can do this...in your chair?" You almost felt bad for bringing it up.

"Yes." He said quickly, firmly, eyes full of lust. "Please."

Now granted his permission, you were not pulling any punches. "Then what are you waiting for, Lieutenant?"

He had hardly let you finish your sentence before he was on you, fingers digging into your hips as he pulled you down, fully seating his cock in you. You bit back a cry at the sudden fullness- the warm, pleasant sting sparking alight a delightful melody of sensations between your legs. With one hand splayed across your upper back, he urged you close, pressed his heartbeat against yours, and tilted your hips forward so your sensitive clit could rub against the light dusting of hairs at his mound.

It seemed the supposed dry spell had done nothing to erode his finesse.

Before your mind could linger on the thought of him having to please himself in all of his pent-up desperation, muscular arms were manoeuvring you, rocking your hips against his sinfully in sync. The grinding motion did wonders for you.

"I need to hear you, Mason," you panted.

He moaned a helpless sound deep in his throat, burying his face in your neck, licking and nipping at the skin in hot, wet kisses. Encouraged by your words, he didn't hold back. "Fuck...

swe-eet-hea-rt,"

he stuttered in between broken whines.

The head of his cock continued its assault on your cervix, the delicate flesh peppering the depths of your velvet insides in rough kisses with adept precision, skilfully drawing out your sweet sounds.

Based on the stories he had told you, if Lieutenant Mason was anything, he was skilled with a weapon. And the way he wielded the weapon in his pants was certainly no exception. How you were a sex-drunk babbling mess was evidence of the fact.

So you would reward him.

You reached down to your hips, motions sloppy with the rhythm of how he was fucking you. Grabbed his hands, peeled them away from you, settled them atop your thighs. He paused, dick still sheathed inside you, looking up at you like a confused, lost puppy.

You smiled softly, reassuringly. "Let me."

You could practically see the hearts swirling in his pupils.