by Simone Stark
Darcy sighed, deep and happy, oblivious to Abby’s panic.
Panic that only deepened when she read the rest of the letter.
Yours
“He didn’t sign his name,” she said out loud, flipping the paper over, disappointment flaring. She didn’t know why it bothered her so much, but she wanted to see it in print once more.
Which meant only one thing.
She was going to have to write it herself.
CHAPTER THREE
IT TOOK thirteen days for her to write back.
Granted, considering the fact that he was halfway around the word in the middle of a war zone and the mail was running through miles and miles of military red tape, thirteen days wasn’t a hell of a lot of time, but it was far more than Roux was willing to sacrifice waiting for Abby to reply.
So, when the soldier approached through the midday dust, pink envelope in his filthy hand, Roux didn’t have much patience.
“Mail, Sarge,” the kid said, waving Roux’s salvation in the air as though it meant nothing.
Roux snatched it away with a growl and turned on his heel, every muscle in his body aching to run—straight to his bunk where he could spend some time with her. With his Abby. But he held it together. He was a fucking commanding officer. He led men into battle, and now he was turning into a teenage boy, desperate for a girl’s attention. But damn it, he was desperate. He wanted her. However he could get her.
There was no one in the operations tent, thank God. Roux sat at his desk, willing himself to go slow as he slid a finger beneath the flap of the pink envelope. As he peeled it open, it occurred to him that she’d licked it closed. He closed his eyes at the thought—Jesus, he knew nothing about this woman, and the mere thought of her tongue had him hard as a rock.
He had to pull it together.
Except then the letter was in his hands, and he was keenly aware of the fact that she was the last person to touch it. That over thousands of miles, this piece of paper was theirs alone. Something only they had touched.
A secret.
Dear Roux,
What did your grandmother call you when you weren’t in trouble? Theo? Teddy? I don’t imagine you’re a Teddy, but I could be wrong. I like Roux, honestly, especially now that you tell me no one there calls you that. It makes me feel like we have a secret.
As for secrets—I told you, I don’t really have any great ones. Truth be told, I don’t have many not-so-great ones. I’m afraid I’m relentlessly uninteresting. Here’s one: I hung up on my sister to read your letter. It’s been a long time since I’ve had something so exciting arrive in the mail. Or any other way, honestly. So, yeah. She’s probably furious.
He was jealous of her sister—that wasn’t fair, he knew, but he didn’t care. He wanted her attention. All of it. Her sister could wait.
Here’s another secret: it was worth it.
He rubbed one hand over his combat beard, triumph rushing through him, fast and furious. His sweet girl was flirting with him, right there in pretty, bold words on pretty, pink paper. “Damn right it was worth it, béb,” he whispered. “I’ll make it worth it every time.”
You asked me about Darcy and Bennet and so I’ll tell you about them. They’re both rescues—Darcy is a chocolate lab found on the side of the road when he was a puppy. I adopted him a year later. For some reason no one wanted him—no one could see what an awesome, loyal, wonderful boy he was. But he’s the best…sweet and funny and totally devoted. He’s actually sleeping next to me while I write to you.
First the sister, and now Roux was jealous of the damn dog. He wanted to be totally devoted to Abby. He wanted to be sleeping next to her.
He wanted her to rescue him.
As for Bennet, she’s my good luck charm. Someone dropped her at my office the morning after Halloween last year. She’d been badly burned by some asshole (sorry for the language, but it’s apt) who thought it would be funny to torture a black cat for kicks. I wasn’t about to let her go after that, so she came to live with Darcy and me. It took her a while to get used to us—especially Darcy—but now she loves us. Possibly under duress. Right now, she’s sitting on a bookshelf, waiting for me to go to bed so she can steal the covers.
And like that, Abby was in bed. But not with the cat and the dog for company. Not with covers for warmth. With him. He’d be all the warmth she needed. His cock was instantly hard and aching, straining for her. For years, jerking off had been a perfunctory process—basic biology. He was a man, and he had needs. But there, behind that desk in the fucking desert, he didn’t just have needs. He had a need. Singular. For Abby.
Without thinking, he reached down to adjust himself, to relieve some of the pressure. That was all he intended to do.
And then he was looking at that pretty paper, and that pretty handwriting and thinking about all the ways he wanted to keep her company in that bed she’d written about, and his fly was open and he was running his hand along his shaft and thinking of her. Always her. Even here, where he had no business thinking about her. Where he had no business imagining her soft mouth or her soft tits or what it would feel like to sink into her soft pussy.
He groaned as he imagined her. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know what she looked like. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever encountered. He lifted the letter to his nose, inhaling, certain that he could smell her there, tempting and fresh, like a secret.
He wasn’t going to last.
He pumped his cock once, twice, and on the third time he came, her name a whisper on his lips as his release flooded over his hand, marking his fingers even as he wished he was marking her.
Fuck.
What was she doing to him? He was in uniform, in public, jerking off in the middle of the day. Because of this woman who had instantly consumed him.
He hadn’t even finished her letter before doing it.
He cleaned himself up quickly. Later he would try to convince himself that it was because he’d been worried someone might come in and see. Or because it was about the worst possible thing he could have done while in uniform, on duty. But none of that was true.
He’d done it quickly because he’d wanted to get back to her letter.
To her.
His Abby, sweet as fresh cream.
He wanted to drink her up.
It’s funny—if you’d asked me a month ago, I would have said it would feel strange writing to someone halfway around the world who I’d never met…but it doesn’t. It feels pretty wonderful to tell you about me and to learn about you—however little. Is that strange, considering we’ve only exchanged two letters? I have so many questions:
Tell me what makes coffee “the way it’s meant to be”? And what makes “real bayou gumbo”? And tell me other things, too—I know you have a grandmother, but what about the rest of your family? How’d you join the military? What do you do out there wherever you are when you aren’t working? Batman or Superman? Dogs or cats? (That last one is a trick question, obviously.)
I’m going to try to be as breezy as you were when you told me you were in the Special Forces, and tell you, simply, that you have to take care of yourself. I’ve seen the movies and read the books about Green Berets, and I need you to be careful. We’re something to each other now, remember? Maybe you need a good luck charm.
Is this the part where I call you cher?
Until soon.
Always,
Abby
P.S. I told you a secret. Your turn.
He reached for a piece of paper instantly. Willing to forgo everything until he’d replied to her. Without thinking, he wrote the first thing that came. The truth.
I can’t remember the last time I dreamed—sleep here is too hard to come by. Too short. Too uncomfortable. But last night, I dreamed of you. Don’t ask me how that’s even possible—I don’t know what you look like, how you sound, how you feel—but there you were. Fucking perfect, like a spring day. I couldn’t see you. Or hear you. But I felt you, Abby. In my a
rms. Against my skin. More.
Roux paused, thinking about how fast she’d run if he told her the rest of it—that he’d woken from the dream, the feel of her silken skin somehow still on his fingers, hard as steel, hot as hell, mid-orgasm, ropes of come lashing his bare stomach, with nothing but the thought of her in his head.
“Fuck,” he whispered to the empty tent. What was she doing to him? What was he doing to himself? He didn’t even know what she looked like. How could he want her so much? How could he be so desperate for her?
He set his hand down on the paper, the size of it nearly taking up the whole page, and with a single, smooth motion, crumpled the whole thing in his grasp. Threw it aside.
Started again. Pretending that he wasn’t hot and hard with need, and desperate to return to his dreams. To return to her.
CHAPTER FOUR
HE SENT A PICTURE.
Abby had ignored everything the moment she opened the door to discover the now-familiar envelope on the foyer floor—Darcy and Bennet got vague petting, but other than that, Abby had shed her coat and keys and bag just inside the door, already opening the letter. Tearing into it, more like it, desperate to read his response.
Gleeful that her first attempt at flirting hadn’t sent him running for the hills.
And then she’d seen the picture.
“Oh my God,” she whispered as she brought it closer to her face, as though she might have missed the obvious takeaway from the glossy photo.
Sergeant Theodore LaRoux was gorgeous.
Big as a house and broad as one, too. Dark hair, brown eyes and a thick beard that made her fingers itch to touch it. The beard hid most of his face, so it was tough to judge his age, but the eyes gave him away. Roux wasn’t a boy; he was a man.
He was wearing camouflage pants, slung low on his hips where a desert-brown t-shirt was tucked into his waistband. The shirt was tight around his chest and abs, and Abby was almost certain that she could make out the ridges of a six-pack. And his arms, huge and muscled and covered in tattoos. Big enough to lift a woman up and carry her to bed.
Even one like Abby.
She sucked in a breath.
She stared at him, his tan skin and his strong jaw and his straight white teeth, and she realized that this was insane.
He was one hundred percent out of her league.
She’d known it, of course. When she’d googled Special Forces and read the requirements and looked at the pictures on the Army website. And on all the corresponding sites run by women who were obsessed with Navy SEALs and Green Berets. She’d known he was all muscle and basically a living, breathing Greek god.
Or Cajun god. Whatever. The point was, he was deity-like, and she was a thirty-two-year-old single woman with a collection of dumb animal t-shirts who was too lazy to cancel the gym membership she never used.
This had been a terrible mistake.
She sat down and flipped the picture over on the couch next to her, too intimidated by the way Roux looked to have it facing up. She peeked at the letter inside the open envelope. Maybe she shouldn’t read it. Maybe she should toss it away, along with that insane picture, and go about her life.
After all, she was already feeling way too connected to this guy, and now…he’d never go for her. The whole thing was clearly unhealthy.
But he’d written her a whole letter. It would be rude not to read it.
Oh, please. Of course she was going to read it.
She snatched it from the envelope, like it was a drug and she needed a fix.
Abby,
I thought your apology for cursing was pretty adorable, but what did I tell you about apologizing for being yourself? Not to mention—sounds like the asshole was an asshole. So it’s not bad language. Just fact. I’m very happy that you found Bennet, and that she’s yours now, even if I’m jealous that she gets to steal those covers.
So—Darcy and Bennet, hmm? Sounds like I’ve got my work cut out for me, convincing you that I’m worth the trouble of writing if you’re a Pride & Prejudice fan. Surprised that I know Pride & Prejudice? Grand-Mère was a Colin Firth admirer. I’m realizing that this letter now requires security clearance—if the guys on my team knew any of this they’d never listen to me again.
It isn’t strange that writing feels so good. It’s right. Here’s my secret: I like making you feel good. And here’s another: your letter made me feel a hell of a lot better than good. So much better that I wonder what you-in-person would make me feel. Fucking glorious, I’m betting. (No apologies for cursing. It’s true.)
To your questions:
1) Always Batman. Superman’s just an alien; Batman is a self-made hero. But if you want the truth, I’ve always thought Wonder Woman was worth them all combined.
2) As for dogs vs. cats, I know better than to pick sides. So I’ll leave it at this: I’m very in favor of Bennet and Darcy.
3) When I’m out here, I’m mostly working. As a commanding officer, I’m basically Team Daddy, so it’s my job to make sure my guys get out smart and get home safe. It’s not always easy, so the work never really ends. I have a little time to read, but I’ll be honest, I’m tired of reading the same five books out here. What’s the book that your friend picked for your club? Maybe I should read it and tell you all the ways it’s wrong about the military? (Number one: a green beret is a hat, not a person, cher. But maybe, if you’re very good, I’ll let you wear mine sometime, if you promise to keep it a secret.) Truthfully, though, the first time I’ve forgotten myself on this tour was when I was reading your letters. They’re better than any book I’ve got.
4) Bayou Cajuns come up from trappers and hunters who were too poor to be able to afford to drink straight coffee, so they did what they could and cut the grounds with chicory. It might have been about money then, but it’s about genius now. Adds a spice that makes it taste just perfect.
5) As for gumbo, people will tell you all sorts of things that make it good. But the truth is, if it ain’t got a good roux, it ain’t worth a damn. You start with roux, real slow and real right. And then you get to all the other bits. And I’m not just saying this because it’s my name, but I know a thing or two about making it slow and right.
6) My grand-mère is gone and, like I said, now it’s just me. I joined the Army when I was 20, a few weeks after she died, wanting to do something right for her and wanting to find something right for me. Seventeen years later, I think I’ve done a good job of the first… As for the second, we’ll see.
It’s hard to remember days when I wasn’t in trouble, but I seem to recall Grand-Mère calling me Téo. I’m definitely up for a snuggle anytime you like, béb, but I’m sure you can come up with something better than Teddy. Cher is fine, but maybe you wan’ try somethin’ more? How ‘bout loup? It means wolf. And you’ve already told me how much you like fur.
While we’re on the subject of you imagining me…I’m including a picture in this letter so you can get it right. I don’t want you fantasizing about the wrong guy. This shot is early in this deployment, so my beard is short enough that you can see at least part of my face. These days…well, good thing you like fur.
Now that I’ve shown you mine, it’s time for you to show me yours. Send me a picture, sweet. Something I can keep close. In the bayou, we call good luck charms gris-gris. I think your pretty face would make an excellent gris-gris.
Yours
She shouldn’t have read the letter.
It made her fall even more; that perfectly flirty, incredibly flattering, totally sexy letter made her want to climb into his lap and live there. Forever. He’d even complimented her pets. He was obviously perfect.
And she was totally imperfect.
She flipped the picture over, letting it fall immediately back to the couch, as though it were on fire. He was every woman’s dream—a thousand times hotter than Mr. Darcy. He made young, wet Colin Firth look like an old bulldog with mange.
Abby closed her eyes and threw her head back, groaning aloud. When sh
e opened her eyes again, Bennet had leapt up on the back of the couch and was leaning down over her face, glittering gold eyes judging her silently, as if to say, Dumb human. You should know better than to interact with your own species. Now feed me.
“I am an idiot,” she told the cat.
Bennet’s tail swished and, on cue, Darcy whined for his own dinner.
Abby got up and headed for the kitchen, speaking out loud. “I don’t even know him. He’s halfway across the world. Why should I care what he looks like?” She faced the dog, who seemed to raise a disbelieving brow at her. “I don’t. I don’t care. I’m just doing my duty as a good citizen. Writing him letters to keep up his morale. Right? To thank him for his service and help him pass the boring hours in the desert. Right? What does it matter what he looks like?”
She set Bennet’s bowl on the floor, and the cat lost interest in the conversation.
She looked to Darcy. “What does it matter what I look like?”
Darcy sighed and offered her his paw, in the hopes that she’d reward him with food.
Abby turned to fill the dog’s bowl. “It doesn’t matter. I could be anyone.” She put his food down and lifted his water dish to refill it. “I could be anyone,” she repeated, staring at the faucet, the stream of water filling the stainless steel bowl.