Page 2 of Stalked By the Soldier

"Hello, what's this?" I mutter, clicking through, and there it is—jackpot. It's a social media profile, not locked down by privacy settings, and it's all Erica. My heart kicks up a notch as I scroll through her timeline, taking in every post, every shared quote, every piece of her that's been laid out online for the world to see.

Each image is a window straight into her life, and damn, she's even more extraordinary than I realized. Pictures of her paintings, vibrant and full of life, splashes of color that tell stories I'm desperate to hear her speak out loud. There are snapshots of her at art shows, her smile as wide as the canvas she stands beside, pride written all over her face.

And then I find it—the connection that zaps through me like a live wire. A photo of her holding a dog-eared copy of "The Great Gatsby," the caption quoting Fitzgerald right off the page I know by heart. That book's been my companion through countless lonely nights, and seeing it in her hands—it's like finding a piece of myself in her grip.

A grin spreads across my face. Our shared passions unspool before me—a love for art that speaks, books that feel like old friends, and a zest for life that refuses to be caged. The excitement builds in my chest, a heady mix of adrenaline and something sweeter, warmer. It's anticipation, pure and simple, the kind that makes you want to run headlong into the unknown because you just know it's going to be incredible.

And then I stumble across a picture of her on the beach.

In a little white bikini.

Hot damn.

My eyes trail over her flawless skin, long legs, tiny waist, hair flowing down her back, ass perky and round. She’s peeking back at the camera over her shoulder. Cute and flirty and playful.

My cock is instantly hard and leaking.

I hesitate only a moment before I unzip my pants and pull it out.

My hand wraps tightly around my length, the image of Erica in that little white bikini burned into my retinas. I pump myself slowly, savoring the raw, primal hunger that settles deep in my gut.

She's a vision—a wet dream come to life, her curves and the playful glint in her eyes weaving an intoxicating spell. My thumb rubs over the sensitive head of my cock, sending jolts of pleasure skittering along my spine. I'm consumed by the image of her in that bikini, all sunshine and bare skin and endless legs.

"Fuck," I groan, leaning back in my chair and letting my head fall back. The room is silent but for the harsh sound of my breathing echoing off the bare walls. My free hand roams over my abdomen, fingers tracing the rigid muscles there. Each heavy breath makes them flex under my touch.

The more I stroke myself, the more vividly I can picture her—those expressive green eyes staring straight into mine as she gyrates on top of me, those full lips parted in a sigh of pleasure. My strokes speed up at the thought, quick and rough and frantic.

I imagine her soft hands replacing mine, her fingers wrapped around me as she works me to a fever pitch. The fantasy is so potent, I can almost feel her warm breath against my neck and hear her whispered encouragements in my ear.

"Fuck Erica..." I mutter to myself, picturing her beneath me—those long legs wrapped around my waist as I drive into her, again and again.

I'm close now—so fucking close—and all I can think of is Erica

—her laughter, her passion, her fiery spirit. The image of her in that bikini, the way she'd look at me with those emerald eyes, the sounds she'd make as I slid inside her...

"God damn," I pant, my hand moving faster and faster. The pleasure is wild, untamed, coursing through my veins like molten lava. The need to see her, touch her, claim her crashes into me like a tidal wave, and I surrender to it fully.

Her name is a prayer on my lips as I come, shooting thick ropes of cum onto my hand and the hardwood floor beneath me. My orgasm is so intense it blurs my vision, and all I can see is the ghost of her body pressed against mine.

"Fuck." The word slips out ragged and raw as I slump back in my chair, my chest heaving wildly.

I'm spent. Exhausted. But there's no satisfaction in this release—not when it's a phantom version of Erica that's driving me wild.

I clean myself up quickly before zipping my pants again and refocusing on the screen.

I run a hand through my hair as I scroll through more of her photos—a spontaneous trip to Italy here, an intimate moment with a paintbrush there—each one adding color to the canvas of who she is.

She's got this profound love for life that’s infectious even through these digital fragments. She isn’t just an artist. She is art, captivating and untamed.

I let out a sigh, longing clawing at my insides. I want this woman. Not just in my bed, but in my life. I want to explore the depths of her mind, to be captivated by her creativity, to be there when she's vulnerable.

That thought scares the hell out of me, but it’s a fear I’m willing to face. I've fought through war zones, stood toe-to-toe with death on more than one occasion, but this? This feels like the most important battle I've ever faced.

The need to see her in person grows stronger with every heartbeat. The screen suddenly feels like a barrier rather than a window into her world.

It’s not enough.

I need her.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com