Chapter 1

Brandon

I"m parkedat a small table, nursing a black coffee that"s already lost its steam. The café buzzes around me, a beehive of clinking cups and idle chatter. I"m just another drone in the mix, but my eyes? They"re on the hunt, darting from face to face, looking for...hell, I don"t even know. A distraction, maybe. Something to snag my interest.

And then, like flipping a switch, the room brightens a notch. It"s not something you see—it"s something you feel. My gaze slides across the café and snags on her, this burst of color in a sea of drab.

Who is she?

She"s got this laugh, you know the kind—sounds like it"s bubbling up from a wellspring of pure joy, and damn if it isn"t infectious.

She"s a few tables over, her head thrown back, auburn hair catching the light as she giggles with the kind of abandon that makes you want to know the joke. Her green eyes sparkle with mischief, and there"s this energy about her, like she could dance off into the sunset and leave us all wishing we had an invite.

It"s not just her laughter that"s got me hooked—it"s the whole package. She"s the sun, and we"re all just orbiting around her, basking in those rays. Every move she makes seems to be in harmony with the universe, and for a second, I forget where I am. I"m not some ex-soldier with too many stories. I"m just Brandon, and I"m completely caught up in this girl—whoever she is.

I lean back, my chair creaking under the shift of weight. There"s something about her, something that lights a fire in my chest. It"s been a while since I"ve felt anything like it, and I"m not about to let it slip away without a fight. This woman has unknowable depths, and I"m itching to dive in, discover every secret smile, every hidden dimple. Hell, I want to know what makes her tick, what throws her into fits of giggles, what stirs that passion I can practically taste from over here.

I sip my cold coffee, my mind already spinning with possibilities.

I hear someone say her name, and my heart skips at beat.

Erica.

It's so perfect, so her.

I tap my fingers on the edge of the table, trying not to make it too obvious that I"m now fully tuned into Erica"s frequency. It"s like there"s a spotlight just on her, and damn if my heart isn"t doing this funny little skip every time she throws her head back to laugh. My gaze drinks in her every move, lapping up the way she brushes her hair behind an ear or tucks a loose strand back into the wild cascade.

"Take it easy, soldier," I mutter under my breath, trying to remind myself to keep it cool. But who am I kidding? Cool flew out the window the moment those green eyes sparkled with all the secrets of the universe.

I lean slightly to the left, seeking a clearer view as she animatedly gestures to accentuate a story she must be telling. The simple act of lifting her coffee cup to those lips—lips that are surely as soft and inviting as they look—sends my pulse racing like I"m back on a mission, adrenaline pumping through my veins.

"Focus, Brandon," I scold myself. But it"s useless. I"m locked in, utterly captivated by the living art piece that is her. She moves like she"s part of some divine choreography, every tilt of the head and flutter of lashes seeming to sync perfectly with the hum of life around us.

The clink of ceramic on wood snaps me out of my reverie—Erica"s setting down her cup, and I"m setting a course to know her. What"s behind those emerald eyes? Is her laugh always this full, like a melody that"s found its perfect rhythm in the chaos of the world?

To others, she might just be another face in the crowd, but not to me. She"s a puzzle I"m itching to solve, a story I want to read from cover to cover, savoring every damn word.

I stand, my chair scraping quietly against the floor. It"s time for some intel—a deep dive into the enigma wrapped in that radiant smile. My soldier instincts kick into high gear, scanning for the best exit. No need to alert her to my interest...not yet.

Back in my apartment, the glow of the computer screen cuts through the dimness. I crack my knuckles—it"s go time. The keys click-clack under my fingers, each stroke a step closer to unraveling the mystery of Erica. I type her name into the search bar, feeling like a modern-day knight on a quest, minus the shining armor.

"Let"s see what you"re all about," I say, half expecting the internet to whisper back secrets only it knows. Thumbnails of her art pop up, splashes of color that scream passion and depth. My gut tightens with anticipation. Each piece is a clue, a fragment of her fervent soul.

I click through gallery after gallery, absorbing the vibrant life she pours into every brushstroke. This woman isn"t just living. She"s alive in a way that sets my blood on fire.

I lean in, the glow of the screen turning my focus into something laser-sharp. Erica"s art is a rabbit hole, and damn if I"m not tumbling down it headfirst. Each painting, each sculpture, it"s like she"s baring her soul to the world, and I can"t get enough. My fingers fly across the keyboard, hungry for more—her favorite books, interviews, any breadcrumb that leads me closer to understanding who Erica Rose really is.

"Jane Austen and Kurt Vonnegut?" I whistle low, impressed. Girl"s got taste. Classic romance with a side of satirical sci-fi. It paints a picture in my mind of her curled up on a couch, losing herself in "Pride and Prejudice" or "Slaughterhouse-Five." Damn, wouldn"t I love to be a fly on that wall?

"Ah, there"s the gold," I murmur as I find a blog post she wrote about living life to the fullest. She talks about seizing the day, finding inspiration in the mundane, and always chasing the next adventure. Her words light a fire in me, and I feel this pull, like she"s already challenging me to step up my own game.

But then, the well runs dry. Click after click leads to dead-ends, private profiles, and frustratingly brief bios. "Come on, give me something to work with here," I grumble, scouring page after forgotten page of search results. It shouldn"t be this hard to find out about someone so vibrant, should it? The irony isn"t lost on me—a trained soldier stumped by the lack of intel on a civilian.

"Erica, you"re killing me," I say to the empty room, scratching at my jaw where stubble is starting to form. With every dead link, my curiosity morphs into something raw, an itch I desperately need to scratch. But the digital paper trail has gone cold, and I"m left hanging, wondering what makes her tick, what her laugh sounds like up close, how her skin feels under my?—

"Focus, Brandon." I shake my head, clearing the X-rated thoughts. Can"t let the frustration mess with my head. There"s got to be another way to crack this code, to find the key to Erica"s enigma. And I"ll be damned if I don"t find it.

I hit refresh for what feels like the hundredth time, my eyes glued to the glow of the computer screen. There's a stubborn part of me that refuses to give up, and it"s running on pure, undiluted hope. Suddenly, the pixels rearrange themselves into something promising—a link I haven"t seen before, shining like a beacon in the digital darkness.

"Hello, what"s this?" I mutter, clicking through, and there it is—jackpot. It"s a social media profile, not locked down by privacy settings, and it"s all Erica. My heart kicks up a notch as I scroll through her timeline, taking in every post, every shared quote, every piece of her that"s been laid out online for the world to see.

Each image is a window straight into her life, and damn, she"s even more extraordinary than I realized. Pictures of her paintings, vibrant and full of life, splashes of color that tell stories I"m desperate to hear her speak out loud. There are snapshots of her at art shows, her smile as wide as the canvas she stands beside, pride written all over her face.

And then I find it—the connection that zaps through me like a live wire. A photo of her holding a dog-eared copy of "The Great Gatsby," the caption quoting Fitzgerald right off the page I know by heart. That book"s been my companion through countless lonely nights, and seeing it in her hands—it"s like finding a piece of myself in her grip.

A grin spreads across my face. Our shared passions unspool before me—a love for art that speaks, books that feel like old friends, and a zest for life that refuses to be caged. The excitement builds in my chest, a heady mix of adrenaline and something sweeter, warmer. It"s anticipation, pure and simple, the kind that makes you want to run headlong into the unknown because you just know it"s going to be incredible.

And then I stumble across a picture of her on the beach.

In a little white bikini.

Hot damn.

My eyes trail over her flawless skin, long legs, tiny waist, hair flowing down her back, ass perky and round. She's peeking back at the camera over her shoulder. Cute and flirty and playful.

My cock is instantly hard and leaking.

I hesitate only a moment before I unzip my pants and pull it out.

My hand wraps tightly around my length, the image of Erica in that little white bikini burned into my retinas. I pump myself slowly, savoring the raw, primal hunger that settles deep in my gut.

She"s a vision—a wet dream come to life, her curves and the playful glint in her eyes weaving an intoxicating spell. My thumb rubs over the sensitive head of my cock, sending jolts of pleasure skittering along my spine. I"m consumed by the image of her in that bikini, all sunshine and bare skin and endless legs.

"Fuck," I groan, leaning back in my chair and letting my head fall back. The room is silent but for the harsh sound of my breathing echoing off the bare walls. My free hand roams over my abdomen, fingers tracing the rigid muscles there. Each heavy breath makes them flex under my touch.

The more I stroke myself, the more vividly I can picture her—those expressive green eyes staring straight into mine as she gyrates on top of me, those full lips parted in a sigh of pleasure. My strokes speed up at the thought, quick and rough and frantic.

I imagine her soft hands replacing mine, her fingers wrapped around me as she works me to a fever pitch. The fantasy is so potent, I can almost feel her warm breath against my neck and hear her whispered encouragements in my ear.

"Fuck Erica..." I mutter to myself, picturing her beneath me—those long legs wrapped around my waist as I drive into her, again and again.

I"m close now—so fucking close—and all I can think of is Erica

—her laughter, her passion, her fiery spirit. The image of her in that bikini, the way she"d look at me with those emerald eyes, the sounds she"d make as I slid inside her...

"God damn," I pant, my hand moving faster and faster. The pleasure is wild, untamed, coursing through my veins like molten lava. The need to see her, touch her, claim her crashes into me like a tidal wave, and I surrender to it fully.

Her name is a prayer on my lips as I come, shooting thick ropes of cum onto my hand and the hardwood floor beneath me. My orgasm is so intense it blurs my vision, and all I can see is the ghost of her body pressed against mine.

"Fuck." The word slips out ragged and raw as I slump back in my chair, my chest heaving wildly.

I"m spent. Exhausted. But there"s no satisfaction in this release—not when it"s a phantom version of Erica that"s driving me wild.

I clean myself up quickly before zipping my pants again and refocusing on the screen.

I run a hand through my hair as I scroll through more of her photos—a spontaneous trip to Italy here, an intimate moment with a paintbrush there—each one adding color to the canvas of who she is.

She"s got this profound love for life that's infectious even through these digital fragments. She isn't just an artist. She is art, captivating and untamed.

I let out a sigh, longing clawing at my insides. I want this woman. Not just in my bed, but in my life. I want to explore the depths of her mind, to be captivated by her creativity, to be there when she"s vulnerable.

That thought scares the hell out of me, but it's a fear I'm willing to face. I"ve fought through war zones, stood toe-to-toe with death on more than one occasion, but this? This feels like the most important battle I"ve ever faced.

The need to see her in person grows stronger with every heartbeat. The screen suddenly feels like a barrier rather than a window into her world.

It's not enough.

I need her.