Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley
he likes practice shooting naked
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The private range smells of gun oil and dry heat. Simon lies prone on a worn mat, rifle stock tucked into his bare shoulder. No shirt. No pants. Just miles of scarred skin, the curve of his spine leading down to the pale swell of his ass, thighs spread for stability.
You kneel beside him with the spotting scope — trying not to stare at the way his back muscles shift as he breathes.
Wind’s gusting left,he murmurs, eye still pressed to the optic.
Adjust two mils.You fumble with the scope’s dial. Your hand trembles. He exhales — not quite a laugh.
First time spotting a naked lieutenant, love?Simon shifts his hips. The movement is lazy, deliberate. You catch the heavy weight of him pressed against the mat, half‑soft but thick, and your mouth goes dry.
Safety’s boring.He turns his head just enough to pin you with one ice‑blue eye.
So is pretending you haven’t been staring at my arse since you sat down.You look down. He’s right. Simon’s bare foot nudges your thigh — warm, calloused, possessive.
Get closer. Spot proper. And if your hand shakes again…He licks his lower lip.
I’ll have to steady it for you. And I’m not gentle.