Then another.
The door clicks softly behind me.
My pulse jumps. I don't need to turn to know who it is.
Gabe steps out a few seconds later.
He walks to the railing and sets two bottles of cold beer down before resting his hands on it, close enough that I feel his body heat through the space between us.
The porch light sitting above us hits the silver at his temples in a way that makes my stomach tighten.
He looks older, stronger, like a man who has lived through storms I haven't even imagined and has somehow become sexier for it.Gosh, does this mean I'm superficial?I think as I panic inside.
"You alright?" he asks.
His voice is softer now, quieter than it was inside, and it slides into me like a warm hand.
"I'm fine," I say. "Just needed a minute."
"You looked sad for a second."
I shrug. "It's been a long year."
He turns his head slightly so he can see my face. "Someone hurt you."
I look out over the yard. "I broke up with someone not too long ago." The words begin coming out in a jumbled mess. He doesn't ask for details or offer hollow comfort.
What he does is listen fully, without glancing at his phone or scanning the yard or drifting into his own thoughts.
The attention is too much, direct and warm, and I feel exposed in a way that's almost intimate. I push off the railing and clear my throat. "I should get back inside."
I take one step toward the door.
"Lena." He speaks my name so softly, I freeze mid-step and turn slowly. His eyes hold mine and the attention in them is simmering hot. "If you want company out here, I can stay."
2
GABE
A cool breeze wafts between us, carrying the faint tang of charcoal from the dying grill and the distant murmur of the party bleeding through the screen door like echoes from a battlefield long buried.
Lena freezes mid-step, her body turning back to me with that slow grace that hits me square in the gut.
She looks so poised, but not without that flicker of vulnerability in her eyes, the kind that makes a man want to shield and conquer in equal measure.
I've seen it before, in recruits fresh from the sandbox, eyes wide with the weight of what they've carried.
But on her?
It's intoxicating, pulling at the disciplined core I've forged through twenty years of orders and ops.
Christ, look at her, I think, my gaze tracing the curve of her hip where the floral dress clings just enough to hint at the woman she's become.
She’s no longer the gangly girl from those old photos, all elbows and braids.
This Lena has filled out into something lethal—full tits straining against the thin fabric, rising with each shallow breath, begging for hands that know how to claim without breaking.
And that ass, round and firm, swaying as she pivots, like it's engineered for a man's grip, for bending her over this railing and showing her what real command feels like.
