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"Erica," I start, voice barely above a whisper, "I gave you a watered down version of my life as a soldier before, but now I need to tell you the truth about my time in the service." She leans forward, green eyes locked onto mine, full of warmth and concern.
It's now or never.
As words tumble out—about brotherhood, the weight of a rifle, the taste of dust—I watch her face. She's a statue of compassion, absorbing every word like it's sacred. I tell her about the days that were too hot, the nights that were too long, the friends that became family. She reaches across the table, her touch grounding me when memories threaten to sweep me away.
"Brandon, thank you for sharing this with me," she says, squeezing my hand. "You're not alone anymore, okay?"
"Okay," I echo, and it feels like a goddamn revelation. My sweet, beautiful girl. She’s heard it all. The dirty details, all the nitty gritty, and she didn’t run for the hills.
She really is perfect.
* * *
Fast forward to that golden hour when the sun starts playing coy, dipping below the horizon. We're perched on a quiet hilltop, the city sprawling beneath us like a kingdom of lights. I pull Erica close, her body fitting against mine like she's always belonged there.
"Look at that view," she murmurs, but I can't take my eyes off her. The last rays of sunlight make her hair shine like molten copper, and I'm struck by an urge so fierce it almost takes my breath away.
Every night, I'm haunted by fantasies of her—her skin, her sounds, her taste. It's a hunger that gnaws at me, relentless and raw. But I keep it caged because I want our first time to be more than just physical release. I want it to be a testament to what she means to me.
I try to steer my thoughts to safer waters. She smiles up at me, eyes reflecting the twilight and the stars beginning to peek through.
"Tell me your dreams," she insists, her fingers tracing patterns on my arm that send shivers down my spine.
"This," I confess, voice thick with emotion. “I dream of this.”
She blinks up at me innocently, her lips parting on a gasp. And I can’t help it. I have to lean down and kiss her.
My cock is leaking like a sieve in my pants. It’s been hell on it staying hard all damn day. But I’d suffer through anything for her.
We make out like a couple of high school kids, and I sense that she would let me take it furhter.
I’m tempted. God, how I’m tempted.
But I can’t. I know I’ll lose control if I do. My obsession with her is too potent.
So, I just hold her tighter as darkness wraps around us.
This is it, the real deal. And I'm scared as hell of losing it, especially with deployment looming over me like a storm cloud. But right here, right now, with Erica in my arms, I let myself believe in something good on the horizon. Something worth fighting for.
CHAPTER FOUR
Brandon
"Double shot of espresso, please, and a vanilla latte for the lady," I tell the barista, my voice a steady rhythm amidst the clinking of cups and the hiss of the steam wand at the café. It's our regular spot, a cozy corner where Erica's laughter often mingles with the scent of roasted beans. I glance back at her, my eyes tracing the curve of her smile, the way her hair tumbles like autumn leaves over her shoulders. She's got this glow, you know? Like she carries her own personal sunrise wherever she goes.
As I wait for our order, that's when he walks in.
Lucas.
I recognize him from Erica’s social media pages.
The childhood buddy turned suave charmer with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. I have to admit that even though I know nothing ever happened between Erica and him, hearing about how close she was with this childhood friend made me all sorts of jealous.
I watch him. He's all casual confidence, strolling through life like it owes him one. And suddenly, he's making a beeline for Erica's table, unaware I'm even in the picture, much less in her life.
My gut tightens, a coil of snakes awakened by the intrusion. I can't hear their words from here, but I see the surprise flicker across Erica's face, a storm of emotions passing through those expressive green eyes. Confusion, nostalgia—damn, it's like watching a silent movie, and I'm not enjoying the show.
"Here you go, sir," the barista hands me the coffees, her cheerfulness lost on me. "Thanks," I mutter, but my focus is locked on the tableau unfolding across the room.
