Chapter 2: The Afterglow
Two hours after the Iron Maiden settled back into her cradle with a groan of hydraulics, Stacy Chen's nerves were still singing. Not from the flight itself, though that had been intense enough. The old Goliath had fought her every step of the way, stubborn actuators and lagging gyros making her work for every inch of altitude. But she'd wrestled the beast through every diagnostic on the board, and when she'd finally set her down, Commander Rostova had given her a single, clipped nod that felt better than any medal.
Now her muscles ached with a deep, pleasant burn, and her skin was slick with the residue of a cockpit that had never known climate control worth a damn. The hangar's exhaust fans had done nothing against the late afternoon humidity. By the time she'd climbed down the ladder, her navy pilot suit was plastered to her body in dark patches, and her short black hair clung wetly to her forehead.
"Not bad for a sim jockey," Jamal had said over the comms before she'd shut down the main feed. She could hear the grin in his voice. "Commander didn't even scowl. That's practically a hug from her."
Stacy had laughed, stripped off the helmet, and headed for the locker room with her duffel slung over one shoulder.
The co-ed showers at Sector Four were a point of pride for the Armored Police Corps, a monument to the progressive, no-nonsense attitude that separated them from the rigid military branches. The facility was a long, cavernous space with a dozen showerheads lining each wall, separated by low partitions that offered just enough privacy to be polite but not enough to hide anything. A row of white porcelain fixtures and a drain grate that ran the length of the floor. The steam from a half dozen active showers curled toward the ceiling, mingling with the industrial tang of industrial soap and the faint, oily smell that clung to every APC officer after a shift.
Stacy had been to these showers before, back during her academy orientation tour. But that had been a brief, clinical walkthrough with a dozen other nervous recruits, none of them willing to make eye contact with the fixtures. Now, two hours past her first real flight, this was her space. Her reward.
She peeled off the top of her pilot suit, the fabric unzipping down her torso with a rasp of static. Beneath it, she wore nothing but a thin sports bra that had long since stopped wicking moisture. The cool air of the locker room hit her skin, raising goosebumps across her arms and the flat plane of her stomach. She toed off her boots and stripped out of the suit's bottoms, leaving her in just the bra and a pair of black boy shorts that were equally soaked.
Around her, a handful of other officers moved through their own rituals. A tall woman with a shaved head and sleeve tattoos peeled off her shirt, revealing a broad back and muscular shoulders. On the other side, a lean man with a faint scar across his ribs was already under a showerhead, water cascading down his spine. A couple of them glanced her way as she undressed, their eyes lingering a moment longer than strictly necessary.
Stacy felt the weight of those glances and didn't mind it one bit. She'd worked for this body. Everything she was seeing reflected back in the metallic surface of the lockers had been earned.
She unhooked her bra, let it fall, and shucked her shorts. Naked now, she walked barefoot across the damp concrete toward the shower stalls, her thighs still buzzing with the phantom vibration of the Iron Maiden's frame. The heat hit her the moment she stepped beneath the spray, and she let out a long, satisfied groan.
"Fuck, that's good."
The water was hot enough to sting, and she welcomed it. She tilted her head back, letting the stream pound against her scalp and run down her back, chasing away the grime of the old mech's cockpit. She could feel the day's exertion releasing from her shoulders, her neck, the deep muscles of her thighs. She ran her hands over her arms, her chest, her stomach, working the knots loose.
She grabbed the communal soap dispenser and lathered up, running soapy hands over her breasts and down between her legs. Her skin was slick, and she let the water rinse her clean before starting a second pass. She leaned forward slightly, her hands sliding across her hips and ass, squeezing the firm muscle there as the steam curled around her.
That's when she noticed the silence.
Not a complete silence, the water still hissed against the tile, and the ventilation fan hummed overhead. But the conversation that had been murmuring between two officers across the room had stopped dead. And when she glanced up, wiping water from her eyes, she found the source.
Marcus Thorne was walking into the shower room.
He hadn't stripped down yet. He was still wearing his slate grey APC uniform, though the top was unbuttoned to his sternum, showing the black tank top beneath and the silver glint of his dog tags against his chest. His dark hair was damp at the temples, like he'd already rinsed his face off somewhere else. He moved with the easy, unhurried confidence of a man who owned whatever ground he stood on.
He looked around the room with those hazel eyes, missing nothing. His gaze swept over the other officers, acknowledging the shaved-head woman with a nod and the scarred man with a lazy salute. And then it landed on Stacy.
Her stomach flipped.
She was standing at the far showerhead, naked and glistening, her chest rising and falling with slightly uneven breaths. Water still ran in rivulets down her body, tracing the lines of her collarbone, her breasts, the taut curve of her waist. She was suddenly very aware of every square inch of exposed skin.
Marcus's mouth curved into a slow, deliberate grin.
He wasn't looking at her like she was one of the boys. He wasn't looking at her like a mentor checking on a junior officer. He was looking at her the way a man looks at a woman when he's already pictured her naked and is enjoying the confirmation.
Stacy felt her cheeks flush, and not from the steam.
"Officer Chen," he said, his voice carrying easily across the room. "That was some pretty flying out there. Commander Rostova doesn't nod at just anyone."
Stacy opened her mouth, but the only sound that came out was a somewhat strangled laugh. She cleared her throat. "Thank you, sir. I mean, Marcus. I was just, uh. Trying not to crash."
"Trying and succeeding are two different things." He walked past the other stalls toward the locker bench just behind her, the one where she'd set her gear. He stripped off his uniform top, folding it with surprising neatness, and hung it over the partition. His tank top followed, revealing a torso that was lean but sculpted, the muscles of his shoulders and abdomen defined without being bulky. His dog tags swung free, catching the light. He unbuckled his belt and let his trousers fall.
Stacy's breath caught.
She hadn't expected him to be so casual about it. But this was the APC, and co-ed showers were standard. He stepped out of his boxers without hesitation, and Stacy couldn't help but look. His cock hung heavy between his thighs, soft but already thick, a good seven inches even at half mast. He was uncut, the skin still covering the head, and the sight of it sent a pulse of heat straight between her legs.
"Like what you see?" Marcus said, catching her gaze. He wasn't smirking. He looked genuinely curious, one eyebrow raised, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
Stacy yanked her eyes up to his face, her skin flushing red. "I. I wasn't. I mean."
He laughed, a low, warm sound that echoed against the tiles. "Relax, rookie. I've been in these showers long enough not to take it personally." He walked past her, brushing close enough that she caught the clean scent of soap and something else, something warm and male. He stepped under the showerhead next to hers, turning his back to her as he reached for the soap. Water sluiced down his spine, over the muscled curve of his ass.
Stacy tried to look away. She really did. But her eyes kept drifting back to him, tracing the water's path over the flex of his shoulders as he soaped his arms.
"Don't worry," he called over his shoulder, his voice pitched low enough that the others couldn't hear. "You'll get used to the view. Half the fun of this job is the after-shift decompression."
She swallowed hard. "Is it always like this?"
"Depends on who's on shift." He turned, facing her now, and the water ran down his chest to soak the line of dark hair that trailed from his navel to his groin. His cock was starting to stir, lifting, thickening slightly as he looked at her. He made no move to hide it. "But I gotta say, rookie. You're making a hell of a first impression."
"Is that a good thing?" Stacy managed, her voice coming out breathier than she intended.
"That depends." He stepped closer, closing the distance between them until she could feel the heat radiating off his body, the spray from his showerhead mixing with hers. "You planning on sticking around?"
She met his gaze. The water plastered her hair to her skull, ran in rivulets down her nose. She squared her shoulders and looked him dead in the eye. "I plan on proving myself."
He grinned at that. "Good answer." His eyes dropped from her face, traveling down her body. He made a point of taking his time, appreciating the way her nipples had tightened into hard peaks under the hot water, how her stomach pulled in with each breath, the dark triangle of hair between her legs where even the steam couldn't hide her growing arousal. "You know, it takes most rookies at least a week to get comfortable in these showers. You're already holding your own."
"I didn't realize there was a competition," she said.
"There's always a competition." He reached out, and for a moment she thought he was going to touch her. But he only brushed a strand of wet hair from her forehead, his fingertips grazing her temple with surprising gentleness. "Some of us just enjoy it more than others."
Her skin tingled where he touched her. Everything in her stomach tightened with a nervous, hungry rush she recognized. She'd felt it during her final semester at the academy, watching upperclassmen get demerits for fraternization while she'd been stuck inside, studying. The APC was different. The rules were looser, the officers encouraged to find their release however they needed to, so long as it didn't interfere with the job.
And Marcus Thorne was looking at her like she was the most interesting new thing this hangar had seen all year.
"So," he said, stepping back to his own showerhead, but not before letting his eyes trail down her body one more time. "You showered off the cockpit grease yet? Or do you need a hand with the hard to reach places?"
Stacy's pulse hammered. She knew what he was offering. It was written in the tension of the space between them, in the way he cocked his hip just slightly, letting his cock hang heavy toward her direction, in the dark, half-lidded gaze he was giving her. He wasn't subtle.
She could pretend she didn't understand. She could play the shy rookie and laugh it off, move to a different stall, keep a professional distance. That was what the academy handbooks suggested for fraternization with senior officers in a corporate military setting.
But Stacy Chen had never been one to follow the handbook.
She took a step forward, closing the gap he'd left. The water from both their showers sluiced down between them, slick on her skin. She stood close enough that she could feel the heat from his body, could smell the soap mixing with his musk. She looked up at him through wet lashes.
"I think I could use some help with my back," she said softly, and then, more brazenly, "If you're offering."
Marcus's grin widened. "I've trained a lot of rookies, Chen." He tucked his fingers lazily under the band of her wrist, thumb brushing her pulse point. "None of them ever turned down a little hands-on instruction."
The other officers in the showers had fallen quiet. Stacy could feel their eyes on them, a mixture of curiosity and amusement. The shaved-head woman gave a low whistle and a grin, turning her back to them to focus on rinsing her hair. The scarred man shook his head with a quiet laugh, but he didn't leave.
In the APC, this was simply how things worked.
Marcus's hands moved from her wrist to her shoulders, thumbs pressing firmly into the knots beneath the skin. Stacy let out a soft groan, her head tilting back, eyes fluttering shut. His hands were strong, practiced. He worked the heels of his palms along her trapezius muscles, then down her shoulder blades, the pressure exquisite.
"Tense," he commented, his voice low, almost right at her ear. The tip of her ear, just the edge, caught his breath, and she shivered. "First flight always does that. You'll loosen up with time."
His hands slid down her back, over the curve of her waist, and she felt strong, callused palms grip the meat of both her hips. He pulled her slowly against his body, the heavy heat of his cock pressing against her hip. She gasped. He lowered his head to the side of her neck and said, "Or maybe you need a more hands-on adjustment."
"Fuck," Stacy breathed.
"The language in the showers does tend to get creative." Marcus's lips brushed her ear, his voice dropping lower. "But I'm not complaining. You can curse all you want. I happen to like a woman who knows how to talk dirty when she means it."
One hand slid from her hip, tracing down the outside of her thigh. The water made everything slick, and his fingers followed the muscle line of her hamstring before curving around the firm curve of her ass. He squeezed, a soft, possessive clasp, and she gasped into his shoulder.
"You spend all those hours in the gym, rookie?" Marcus murmured, his mouth traveling down to the curve of her neck, warm and wet. "Your ass says yes."
"Armored corps fitness requirement," she managed, barely coherent. "Minimum ten hours a week."
"Practical." His hand slid lower, cupping her, one finger tracing dangerously close to the tight seam between her legs with infuriating patience. "I appreciate a woman who takes her training seriously."
Stacy's hips bucked involuntarily toward his touch. A small huff of laughter escaped Marcus. He stepped back just enough to look at her, his eyes dark with want. His cock had fully stiffened now, no longer soft, a solid, curved shape bobbing against the water-slick grove of his stomach. It was thick and veined, the skin flushed from the heat of the showers. She stared at it, a raw hunger uncurling in her belly like a fist releasing.
"First flight," he said, catching her gaze. "Naked in the co-ed showers. You staring at my cock like a starving woman." He tilted her chin up between two fingers. "Tell me, Stacy. How much of this training did you really sign up for?"
Her answer came out in a rush of honesty, stripped clean of the propriety she'd polished at the academy. "All of it. I want to prove myself. To the corps. To Commander Rostova." She swallowed. "To you."
"Good." He stepped into his own stream of spray and pulled her fully against him. The contact of bodies, the heat of his naked skin against hers, the solid mass of his erection nestled between them, made her gasp. Marcus's mouth found hers, and he kissed her with an easy sureness that took a moment to follow. It wasn't hard or hurried. It was a long, deep press of lips, tongue sliding against hers, tasting of soap and mint. He kissed like he knew he could do it all day, and she was welcome to do the same.
When he pulled back, he was breathing a little heavier. "You don't have to impress anyone, rookie. Not tonight." He thumbed across her cheek. "But if you want to test me, I'm not gonna complain."
The tremor of the Iron Maiden's cockpit hadn't left Stacy's body. Now it had a different source.
She reached down, hands closing around the base of his cock. He let out a low sound of appreciation at the touch, something dark and pleased. She gave a firm stroke and praised his girth with the pressure of her palm. Marcus's hand landed on her shoulder where her grip on him felt just right.
"Show me what you learned at that academy," he said hoarsely.
Stacy turned in his arms. Now she went down onto her knees, the water hammering on her back and shoulders. She pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of his hip. The sound he made was pure, unrestrained male. She licked along his length, tasting salt and steam and musk. The skin was hot beneath her tongue, velvet-soft where he wasn't impossibly hard. She curled her hand around the base, stroking him in slow, steady rhythm while her lips dragged along his shaft.
Marcus's fingers threaded through her wet hair, a firm pressure that grounded her, guided her. "You like the taste?"
"Fuck yes." She gave the head one slow, broad stroke with her tongue, lapping up the bead of fluid that had gathered there. Then she opened her mouth and swallowed around him, her lips stretching their full circle until she felt the head bump against the back of her throat.
It took her by surprise. His size, the sheer thick weight of him sliding past her tongue. She gagged, once, and tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. She pulled back, gasping, and Marcus laughed, though it came out stretched.
"Need a bigger mouth, rookie?"
She met his eyes. "Need more practice." She took him deep again, slower this time, breathing through her nose and relaxing her throat around him until the head slipped past the constriction. When she looked up at him through the steam, with him buried to the root between her lips, his expression was raw.
"God, Chen." His hips twitched, a shallow thrust that pressed his pelvis against her nose. He pulled back, and she used her hand for the wet glide his tongue gave just under the ridge of his head. Her spit coated him, slick and obscene.
"Oh Christ." He pulled her up in a single fluid motion, turning her so her back met the cool tile wall. His body pinned her, his cock sliding through the valley of her slit, slick and teasing. She cried out at the contact, hips bucking forward, trying to catch him, but he danced away each time.
"What do you want, Stacy?" His voice was rough, but patient. The rain of the shower hammered on both of them. "Tell me."
She was past coherence. "Fuck me. Please. I need you inside me."
Marcus did not grin. A look of raw hunger passed through his eyes, and his jaw tightened. He reached down, guided his cock to her cunt, and pressed just the head against her opening.
"Beg me properly before that first flight," he rasped.
She wrapped a leg around his hip, nails raking softly down his back. "Please, Marcus. Fuck me. Fuck my cunt until I can't walk." The filthy words tumbled out, honest and desperate.
He gave a low, approving growl and pushed.
The sensation of his thick cock stretching her open, filling her, was overwhelming after the day's strain. Stacy gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders. He gave her a heartbeat to adjust, holding himself fully seated, buried to the hilt until his pelvis ground against her clit. The water rushed over them both.
"Fuck, you're tight," he breathed, forehead pressing against hers. "First flight nerves and all. Going to ruin you, rookie."
"Do it," she demanded, and thrust her heels against him.
Marcus did. He pulled back until she felt the drag of his rim against her walls, then drove back in, hard enough that the tile rattled behind her head. He set a rhythm, a deep, punishing pace, each stroke aimed at something that made her cry out with bruising wetness. The water slicked them as his balls slapped the curve of her ass.
Stacy's head fell back. His hand caught her jaw, tilted her face to his, and he kissed her drunk and drowned. His hips didn't stop. She scrabbled against the wall even as he slammed into her, gasping around his tongue.
At the edge of sensation, at the build cresting deep in her belly, she came with a sharp, startled yelp, her cunt clenching around him. The shudder of her climax rippled through him, a tremor in his chest.
"Not yet," he growled against her mouth. He grabbed her ass with both hands, lifted her up, pinned her to the wall, and drove up into her slick, twitching cunt with a new angle that made her see stars. She wrapped both legs around his waist with a strength she didn't know she had.
His strokes grew harder, shorter, more desperate. "Where?" he demanded, a ragged breath torn from the back of his throat. "Tell me where you want it."
"In my mouth," she gasped. "Eat it. Swallow it."
He laughed, a raw breath of snuck color, and obeyed. He pulled out of her cunt in one slick movement and pressed her down to kneel as she had done, then gripped his cock with his hand and dragged the head across her lips, slick with her fluid and his. She opened her mouth, eager, and he shoved himself to the root, erupting with a hoarse shout, hot and thick, down her throat. She swallowed around his jerking length, greedily, desperately, swallowing the last bitter splash until he slowly pulled free.
Stacy collapsed against the wet tile, chest heaving, cum and water mixing on her lips. She licked her mouth and looked up at him through glistening lashes.
Marcus leaned over her, back braced on an arm to catch his balance. His eyelids looked heavy and well fucked. "Welcome to the APC, rookie." His voice was thick.
She laughed weakly. "That the official standard for all of them?"
"The ones who pass inspection." He ruffled her wet hair with surprising fondness and dropped his voice. "You passed on your first try."