Stolen September: A Military Romance

“You’re right.” He takes out his phone and calls a waiter over to take a photo of us. Tank doesn’t even wait for him to leave before making it his background screen.

“Really?” I tease him. He knows I’m asking about him coming or going and what that means to me, to him, to us.

“Yes. You want dessert?”

I coyly glance from under my eyelashes and shake my head no. From the moment he returned, this sexual tension has brewed between us nearly unchecked. I’m full from dinner and a little tipsy from wine, feeling braver than I did when he showed up on my doorstep yesterday.

“You want to catch a movie? They have a double at the drive-in. Since this is a proper date and all.” Tank scoots closer to me, no longer safe on the other side of the table.

Falling, falling, falling. I have no chance to catch myself with his determined charm—try as I might.

His hand makes contact with my knee, drawing circles on the smooth skin. I chose to wear a cute skirt with my brown knee-high boots, and now I wonder if I made this too easy for Tank. The heat between us is enough to melt our clothes off, leaving me panting and in need of ice-cold water in winter. I was supposed to be spurning his advances in exchange for explanations, but all I really want is him.

“We could play twenty questions, but I’d rather hear what you want to do.” Away from prying eyes, Tank’s fingers drag up my leg in a lazy caress that makes my heart leap.

I lean over and whisper in his ear, my lips touching the bottom shell of his lobe, my breath warm against his neck. “I want you to take me home.” My voice shakes on the last word and Tank topples over in his chair, standing up. He’s like a bull in a china shop trying to get to me, even though I’m less than a foot away.

“All right then.” He seems about as composed as I am, and we giggle gathering up our leftover boxes and getting into the car. He drives a little faster than before, and instead of driving to my house, he takes a detour through town, driving me to his—specifically, his room that’s over the garage.

You would have thought that both of us living at our parents’ homes would have impeded hanky-panky time for the two of us. If anything, it meant that we needed to be more creative, and that’s when Tank introduced me to the loft in his parents’ garage. Back then the place had been a dusty shell of wood beams, old exercise equipment, and cardboard boxes. During the summer he’d been busy converting it into his place. He told me he wanted more privacy, but his parents encouraged him to save his money instead of getting an apartment in town. The garage was a family compromise, but I didn’t know then that he’d enlisted either. The few times I’d been here we had drunk beers and dragged boxes to the curb filled with years of junk while his parents were at work and his little brother played rec football in the park. It looks completely different now—almost like it had a feminine touch, which I assumed is the handiwork of his mom.

White eyelet curtains cover the windows and a queen metal bedframe sits in the middle of the room, with minimal other furniture that looks like it was collected with care. The old sofa with the tear in the cushion from a night of roughhousing is gone. A tiny fridge sits in the corner next to a table with two chairs under the window.

“Been busy?” I tease.

“Been thinking of you. I might have recruited a little help.” Tank shrugs and he backs me up to the bed, nudging me on top.

I flop back, edging over the mattress, and rest on my elbows. I watch this man walk around the loft lighting candles

in strategic nooks around the room. It bathes us in a warm glow, but I shiver in anticipation.

Tank follows me down on the bed, his jean-clad knee between my legs rucking up my skirt. His warm hand cups my knee from behind and finds its way under my skirt, resting on my butt and pulling me in closer. Missing him doesn’t compare to the ache that overwhelms my chest and puts a knot of words in my throat. I rub against him and he groans, letting his head hang down over my heaving torso.

“Tank, what are we doing?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer. Instead he shows me by pulling at the tie on the top of my white peasant top, letting it open slowly, exposing my breasts filling the lace cups of my bra. His gaze studies me and I shift, nervous, uncertain.

His hand covers my breast and fondles me, slowly rubbing a thumb over my lace-clad nipple. His voice is low and thoughtful, matching his torturously slow movements.

“I know you won’t believe me right now, but the one thing I missed the most was watching you sleep. I wanted more of those nights and I regretted leaving the way I did that very next morning.” His face is contrite. I believe him. If anything, Tank isn’t a liar, although what he did hurt.

“No calls? No texts?” I question.

Tanks shakes his head; his fingers trace the line of my collarbone and between my breasts, all the way to my belly button. “No phones at training camp. I suppose I’d forgotten that part in all my excitement.”

We stare intently at the path his fingers take with gentleness across my skin. He peels the rest of my clothing away and I shift underneath him to sit up and help him divest his own. Leisurely I pull his shirt up and off. He slides his pants off, kicking them away from the bed. My hands run over his chest—beyond more muscular than before. My short nails find every groove and hollow, touching and memorizing the sensory input. I don’t know for certain how long I have Tank for, if at all. If this is the only moment available to us, well then, I’d better make the most of it.

“I know this doesn’t change what I did or how I went about it, but for what it’s worth, I’ve never regretted anything more.” His arms close around me like he’s trying to shelter me from the emotional bombs only he can detonate.

“It’s about trust, Tank.” I sigh, turning my head from him to stare at the window. Lights from outside twinkle, and I focus on the changing tempo following a holiday song that can only be heard by tuning into a radio from the cars lining up and driving past outside.

Tank turns my head to look at him. “Honeybee, give me a chance to win that trust back. The love is there and I don’t want to lose you.”

“What are you asking me? You’re going to go back to training, and at some point you’ll get deployed, and where will that leave me?”

His head burrows in my chest, breathing deep for a moment before he raises it, looking me in the eye. “If you’re my wife, you go where I go.”

A minute passes, maybe more, where I’m stunned silent. Is he proposing? Was that a proposal? Thinking turns off when Tank reaches for my hip, pulling me under him fully. The heat of his rigid, swollen length is pressed against me. I lift up to feel as much of his heat as I can. Winding my hands around his neck, I pull him down to kiss me. Lips fuse together and I open up to Tank as he presses inside me. I whimper at the feel of him gliding inside with some resistance.

“Honeybee.” His guttural sound ignites the spark within and I relax, taking him fully inside me. I move my hips to feel more of the passionate zings between us. Tank is relentless, setting the pace far too casual. I need him. I want him. I’m clutching onto him so tightly, forcing my orgasm with each undulation of my body until I cry out, spent. He covers my mouth with his so I don’t wake the neighborhood.