He doesn't think about Sharon or Boomer or Maggie or Lee or Kara or any of the other bodies he's brushed against, naked and dressed and in all the stage in between. He just lets his body go, sprawled on the rack like some sacrifice to the sun he hasn't seen in ages, muscles tight and bunched beneath his skin as he flexes and relaxes, rolling his hips upward, letting the thrust of his body slide his cock against his hand.

He doesn't think about duty or honor or being a soldier or being a man. He just feels his teeth clench as he wills his body to slow down, to take the moment and let it linger. He feels his heel dig against the metal floor and the other against the thin mattress, feels the hot and the cold, the soft and the hard. He feels the tension that coils in his shoulders and his spine slithering through his body and pooling in his gut before it slides lower, throbbing at the base of his cock with every beat of his heart.

He doesn't think about faith or fidelity, doesn't think about promises or oaths. He just feels the burn of heat that builds with the friction, the hard circle of his fingers around the base of his cock, the lightning fast reaction that jolts his skin with every hard stroke. He just feels it building like a bomb, ticking to release until all he hears is the rush of his blood and the inevitable countdown.

He doesn't think about life or death. He just feels it flood through him like sunlight or satisfaction, like the burn of radiation - how it tingles against your skin before it burns, before it hurts. He feels for the edge with his hands and then holds on as long as he can, teetering on the precipice until the world explodes and the sky comes crashing down.