I think about her pretty eyes…I imagine them hooded with pleasure when I finally slide inside of her, and the thought pushes me over the edge.
A soft grunt escapes my lips, my body growing taut as the pleasure peaks. My balls tighten almost painfully, my butt digging hard into the mattress.
Suddenly, a long hard spurt of semen shoots from my cock, spattering my chest. I throw my head back, submitting to the overwhelming pleasure that racks my body and soul.
Everything around me fades into darkness, except the image of her…clear as day—just as clear and bright as my intention to make her mine.
Chapter Two
Georgia
I step out of the shower, steam clinging to the mirror and fogging my reflection. I wipe a clear patch with my palm and stare at myself for a second longer than necessary, like I’m trying to read something in my own face.
Nothing looks different.
That’s the unsettling part.
I pull on my underwear, then a soft blouse I reserve for days I need to feel put together even when I don’t quite feel that way inside. As I button it, my thoughts drift back to the letter waiting on my kitchen counter.
It has no stamp or return address…
I’d found it under my door a week ago, bent slightly at one corner, my name written in careful, deliberate handwriting. I remember standing there in the hallway of my apartment building, keys still in my hand, wondering who stuck a letter under my door.
I’d picked it up, gone back inside and sat at my kitchen table that night. My hand had trembled slightly as I opened the letter. And the moment my eyes scanned the words, I knew who had written it.
It was from the soldier who received my letter—the one I’d sent into the void a year ago and never thought about again.Or tried not to think about…
He told me how much it had meant to him. How it had helped him through one of the hardest periods of his life. How he’d carried it with him everywhere. How my words had stayed when everything else fell apart.
I swallow now, my chest tightening at the memory of how I felt at that moment reading his words.
He wrote like someone who had thought long and hard about every sentence. Like someone careful not to push. He said he wasn’t ready to meet me yet. That he didn’t want to scare me. That he wanted to give me a choice.
A choice.
My gaze drifts to the far end of my closet, to the red jacket hanging there, vivid against the muted tones around it.
I remember describing it in my letter—how my sister had given it to me for my birthday, and how I felt it was too bold for my usual taste, but I kept it anyway because it felt like her. I hadn’t even realized I’d written that much detail.
Apparently, I had.
And he remembered.
In his letter, he wrote that if I was willing to hear from him again, I should wear the red jacket to work on Friday.
Today.
I exhale slowly through my nose.
That was the moment the warmth I’d felt reading his letter had shifted into something sharper. Because there was no ignoring what that meant.
He hadn’t mailed the letter.
He’d delivered it himself.
Which means he is in Los Angeles. He knows where I live despite my address being unlisted. Which means he’s seen me—watched me. Long enough to know my routine. Long enough to know when I’m home.
That should terrify me.
