It was not yet fully hard but already obscene in its size: thick, veined, the head flushed a deep dusky pink.

Even soft it looked... impossible.

The kind of thing that belonged in hushed locker-room stories, not standing naked and unapologetic in front of the woman who signed every order on the base.

"It’s huge!"June’s mind screamed again, the thought ricocheting wildly behind her eyes.

Jesus Christ, it’s actually bigger than I imagined. How is that even—how is he—*

She forced her gaze back to his face, but it was too late. He’d seen it. The way her throat worked.

The way her fingers flexed at her sides as though she was fighting the urge to reach out.

Ross took another slow step closer.

"Still think you’re in charge here, Commander?" he murmured, voice velvet over steel.

June lifted her chin, defiant even as color climbed high on her cheekbones.

"I’m always in charge," she said, but the words came out huskier than she intended. "The question is... are you going to make me prove it?"

She uncrossed her arms.

One hand drifted downward, fingertips brushing the remaining fastenings of her jacket.

Ross’s eyes tracked the movement like a hawk.

"By all means," he said softly. "Prove it."

The room felt smaller now. Hotter. The cameras kept recording, indifferent.

And neither of them moved to turn them off.

"Don’t move," June warned, her voice low and unnervingly steady, the kind of calm that carried an edge sharper than any blade.

"Not a single inch. Or I might accidentally crush a nut or two. And trust me—I’ve got the grip strength for it."

Ross froze instantly, every muscle locking into rigid compliance.

The air between them thickened, suddenly too warm, too close.

She reached for the box of nitrile gloves on the steel counter.

The packaging tore with a crisp, deliberate rip.

She shook one out, then the second, and snapped them over her wrists in quick succession—sharp, clinical pops that echoed in the small, windowless room like tiny gunshots.

Then she stepped in.

Up close, Ross was bigger than she’d registered from across the room. Broader. Taller.

The kind of solid, quiet physicality that seemed to displace oxygen.

She started at the crown of his head, fingers threading through thick, slightly damp hair—dark strands that curled just enough to catch at her knuckles.

She moved with textbook precision: scalp, temples, behind the ears, the taut skin along the nape of his neck where pulse beat steady and strong beneath her fingertips.

Down the column of his throat. Along the ridge of his collarbones.

Across the wide, warm plane of his chest.

His skin radiated heat, and when her palms skimmed over his pecs she felt the quick, involuntary flex of muscle beneath.

That was when she noticed it.

He smelled good! So good in fact.

Not the artificial bite of cologne, not the sharp sting of aftershave—just clean sweat, warm skin, something faintly cedar-and-salt that belonged to him alone.

It drifted into her lungs like smoke, quiet and insidious, sinking deep.

Her body reacted before her mind could issue a denial: heat unfurled low in her belly, a slow, liquid bloom.

Her nipples drew into tight, aching points beneath the stiff cotton of her bra.

Years of discipline kept her expression blank, her breathing measured, but inside her blood had turned molten.

She hated how much she liked it.

She hated even more that she wanted to lean closer and breathe him in again.

Instead she forced her hands lower.

Ribs. Abdomen. The hard, ridged line of his obliques.

Every touch felt louder than it should—skin sliding against nitrile, the faint rasp of body hair, the subtle tremor that ran through him when her thumbs brushed the sensitive skin just above his hips.

She dropped into a controlled squat.

And that was when her composure fractured.

Ross was already fully erect.

Thick. Heavy. Darkened with blood and straining upward in shameless, unapologetic demand.

The flushed head glistened faintly at the tip.

It stood mere inches from her face—close enough that she could feel the radiant heat coming off him, close enough that the clean, musky scent of aroused male flooded her senses.

June’s pulse slammed in her throat, loud enough she was sure he could hear it.

For one endless, dangerous second she simply stared.

Her mouth watered. A shameful, involuntary thing.

She could almost taste him—salt and skin and the faint metallic promise beneath.

Her cunt clenched hard, a sharp, needy pulse that made her thighs press together instinctively.

Then she swallowed once. Hard.

She tore her gaze away, forced her eyes back to neutral inspection points—inner thighs, knees, calves, ankles—as though nothing at all had changed.

But everything had.

The air felt charged now, electric with what neither of them was saying.

Her gloves were suddenly too tight, too hot against her palms. Her heartbeat hadn’t slowed.

And every time she exhaled, she tasted him on the back of her tongue.

She rose slowly, deliberately, keeping her movements clinical even as her body screamed otherwise.

When she finally met his eyes again, Ross was watching her.

Not smug. Not mocking.

Just... aware.

And the look in his gaze said he knew exactly how close she’d come to breaking protocol.

June’s jaw tightened.

June felt the panic claw up her spine like ice water.

Every instinct screamed at her to run.

To stand up abruptly, stammer some half-formed excuse about needing to consult an expert or double-check the roster, and get out before her face betrayed her completely.

Before the heat in her cheeks became visible on the grainy feed the security team would review later.

Before she did something irreversible in a room wired for every second of scrutiny.

But the cameras stopped her cold.

They were impossible to ignore once she remembered them—four matte-black hemispheres mounted high in the corners, tiny red status lights pulsing like slow heartbeats.

The base didn’t just record; it watched her every move inside this room.