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She sees him first—and there is a moment, however brief, where she knows she can avoid being seen herself, where she can duck behind a curve in the wall or flatten herself around a corner, letting him pass without remark or look or provocation to whatever action his animal instincts will mete out in punishment. But she does not turn. Riza stops at the intersection of two paths and waits for him.
“Lieutenant,” Major Miles says, returning her salute. “General Raven has arrived, and he’s brought along a guest—”
“We’ve met,” Riza says. “We fought together.”
“In Ishval.”
Kimblee’s gaze rakes her in return.
“General Armstrong was looking for you, sir.”
Her mouth is too dry to make the lie convincing, but Miles is clearly eager to take any excuse to offload his unwelcome burden.
“I trust you can find your way to the guest barracks, Lieutenant. Last service in the mess hall is 1900 hours without exception—but the officer’s commissary will serve civilians. You can show him the way.”
But they don’t make it to the commissary, or the mess hall, or even close to the guest barracks: a narrow weapon supply closet with a door that locks from the inside, where they’re both surprised at the difficulty of removing her boots and both elect instead for him to fuck her hard from behind.
“I thought you’d be there to greet me when I got out,” he says, bruising her ribs with his grip, groaning between breaths at each sawing slide of his cock between her thighs.
“It’s been five years,” she replies, bracing with both hands on a crate of rifles. “You should be over it by now—like me.”
“How—”
His fingers fumble beneath the wire of each cup to pinch and sharply tug her nipples until she cries out.
“—could I ever get over this?”
Her whole backside will be red from impact—she’ll feel the phantom of his brutality every time she sits or stands, deliciously, as an ache that threads up from her toes to settle broadly between her hips. He knows her rhythms too well, pushes and pulls and keeps her just back from tipping over the edge.
She can make love to other men, but no one will ever ruin her the way he can. He uses her and she uses him right back—she comes, and he shoves her to kneel, fucking her mouth until she is woozy and begging to be undone.
Bitter as she remembers—an awful feeling on her tongue and sliding down her throat, as he stumbles back against the wall, softening rapidly and panting like a dog. She struggles to stand and to right her clothes, and he hardly gives her a moment to breathe before yanking her to his lips.
Her hair has come loose, and he wraps it around his fist, tugging her head back to open her throat for his attention.
“You owe me more than this,” he murmurs, tracing her carotid artery with the point of his narrow tongue.
“Then take it,” she says.