Soft isn’t a word people use for men who’ve seen what I’ve seen.
“Don’t get used to it,” I say softly, brushing my nose against hers.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not soft, Cassandra. I’m not safe. And if you keep looking at me like that…” I trail my thumb over her bottom lip, slow enough to feel the shiver that rolls through her. “I’ll prove it.”
Her eyes lock onto mine.
And she smiles like she wants me to.
She grabs the lapel of my jacket and tugs me closer, breath warm against my mouth. “So what happens now?”
I exhale hard. “You mean before or after I ruin you?”
Her breath catches.
And I can’t take it back.
I don’t want to.
“I should take you home,” I mutter, voice tight.
“You don’t want to,” she says softly.
“Doesn’t matter what I want.”
She tilts her head. “You said you don’t do romantic soldier?”
I bite back a grin. “You calling me soldier now?”
“You’re wearing dog tags,” she shrugs. “And you just kissed me under the stars on a rooftop. That’s pretty fucking cinematic.”
“Yeah?” I tug her closer by the waist. “Wanna see what else I can do with a view like this?”
Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away.
Doesn’t shy.
Doesn’t step back.
So I don’t kiss her again.
Not yet.
I want her to feel this — the burn of wanting, the ache that stretches from her chest to her thighs, the anticipation that makes the whole damn skyline feel electric.
“Take me home,” she whispers.
But she isn’t talking about an address.
She’s looking at me likeIam home — like every jagged, violent, wounded part of me is where she wants to land.
“I don’t think you know what you’re asking for,” I rasp.
She steps in, so close I feel her breath move through me. “Then show me.”
And that’s it.
