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valmare · 1 year

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So I accidentally answered your ask with the rough, ROUGH draft of this, @bradleybeachbabe and had to delete it, so here's the updated one! So sorry about this, honey!

Come Back to Me

"Darlin’, would you just simmer down and talk to me?"

The question comes too little too late, a whirlwind of thought replacing any hope of reason that the thought of stepping outside for fresh air had originally promised.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not again, not so soon.

Instead of reasoning out the absolutely awful feeling swirling through your gut at the mention of yet another deployment, your head is spinning with a thousand different thoughts, a hundred emotions—at least. It’s hard to see straight in the fading light of the Texas evening, long shadows from the barn not comforting, but not unwelcoming.

There’s a taste of rain in the air, even if it’s rare for July as you double over at the waist, trying to heave air into the inferno that’s become your lungs.

“C’mon, baby, don’t do this—”

Jake Seresin’s words behind you, somehow, manage to knock the wind from your chest while poking a hot iron of rage through the center of your gut. You’re angry, livid even, for a heartbeat before he slows off his jog to you, hand extended, looking like he’s trying not to be as sorry as he is. Or maybe it’s reversed, you’re not sure.

“Don’t! You stop right there, Seresin,” you backstep a few inches, finger pointed firmly at him as you slip into the long shadow of the barn, “I’m angry at you, remember? I’m not ready to kiss and make up,” your jaw stitches firmly in place, “Yet.”

He slows up, brow lifted as if this is progress. “Yet?”

“Yet.” You pout, arms crossed in front of you.

Bleeding silence seems to seep to the dust beneath your boots, and for a second you think maybe you’ve hit the proverbial artery of the situation and actually rendered the notorious Hangman, a man known for his silver tongue and quick wit, speechless. About to congratulate yourself for managing to say so upset with him and not melt into his hands like putty, he shoots you that smile—the one that levels your knees, leaves you breathless, and sends you into a reeling spiral.

“Come on, Peach—you can’t stay mad at me forever. Not when I’m leavin’.”

You guffaw in his face, expression an exaggerated shock that is purposely intended to knife between his ribs. “Oh, is that so? Really, Jake, you do have it all figured out, don’tchya? Well, let me tell you what you can do with all that cock and bullshit—”

In three steps he’s rushing you, grabbing your wrist, and pulling you flush up against his chest in ways that send a lightning bolt down your spine. Mildly concerned you’re on fire but wholly aware that ice is tracking through your veins, you glance at his large hand gripping your wrist tightly, then where your chests are brushing before furrowing your brow solidly at him.

“Easy, darlin',” his smug expression pulling the corner of his mouth up in a smirk, his sparkling eyes are full of a life you wish you could forgot but know you won’t when he’s gone. "Take it easy for Jake, would ya?"

Your mind spins back to the barn of the Seresin family homestead, where the foaling barn is teeming with new life and the warm, sharp scent of fresh hay. You’d been happy to check in on the newest foal, a stunning overo paint, when Jake had meandered his way into the barn to find you giving happy scratches to the baby’s nose.

At first you’d hesitated taking Jake up on his offer to fly down to Austin and stay with his family for a few days, apprehensive what they would think of you, an Okies girl. If it promised anything short of the drama your initial meeting with Hangman had, it was sure to either go up in flames or become one for the books.

You hadn’t been sure if the 50/50 split was worth the risk, knowing Jake was a family guy. Any rift between girlfriend and family would only mean bad things for you, the aforementioned squeeze. Addressing your concern about his Austin-rooted family receiving your Oklahoma Okies blood one night over drinks and darts, Jake had laughed off your concern as nothing but overthinking before pressing a chaste kiss to your lips.

“They’re gonna love you, baby. An’ if they don’t, I’ll figure out a way to make ‘em love ya. The rivalry is football, darlin’—you could come from a cardboard box and I doubt Mama will care.”

His kiss and soft eyes scouring yours had set your flaming nerves to somewhat of an ease, but the day you’d boarded a plane for Austin, your nerves had been flayed raw. The rivalry between colleges may have only been in football, sure—but if Jake’s family was anything like yours, football was next in line to God, family, and country. Next to the Navy, of course—perhaps Jake’s only saving grace when it would come to bring him home to OKC.

When Jake had angled his truck into the driveway to park and unload your luggage, the hole in your middle had felt nearly visible. Fluttering with butterflies and clammy with nervous sweat, his mother had barreled out of the front door to greet you, arms opened wide and what seemed to be the exact smile from her son plastered on her face. She’d rocked you in her arms, greeting you with a big old Texas “Howdy, darlin’!” while laughing and giggling like you were her long lost kin.

His bustling family had welcomed you into the house with food and an abundance of Texas hospitality. It became blindingly obvious that Jake had inherited his mother’s charm, and his father’s ego—for two hours you had listed to Mr. Seresin boast on Jake’s brother kicking for the Longhorns, the family’s home team. Being an Okie’s fan you had to keep your jaw welded closed with a plastered smile, but you couldn’t deny the pride nearly popping the man’s buttons.

And Jake. Good god, his family never stopped talking about him and the Navy and all his accomplishments. If you hadn’t been dating him and hellbent on knowing everything about Hangman, it was enough to drive anyone nuts.

If they weren’t asking about the Navy, they were speculating about all his adventures and missions. Hyperbole, since Jake hadn’t deployed to anything remotely dangerous since you’d started dating, but you’d nearly melted at how much they adored him. You doubted there was a prouder family this side of the border.

It manifested not only in the smiles and jests and stories, but in the food. Mama, as you’d been instructed to call her, had brought out all the fixin’s for her baby home from the Navy—right down to peach pie, his favorite, and buttermilk biscuits. Tonight’s dinner promised his father’s fair-awarded-for-six-consecutive years chili with cornbread.

Any more talk of mouth-watering food and you were sure you’d have to shop for a new wardrobe before you flew home.

Overwhelmed with the family’s fawning and dead on your feet with jet-lag, you’d made your way to the barn for some alone time. Quiet and familiar, being from Oklahoma with a daddy who worked cows for a living, nothing could quite compare to the nuzzle of a newborn filly or the bright eyes of a curious colt. Standing in the most magnificent barn you’d ever seen, the Seresin homestead felt like home, even if home was a thousand miles from here.

Jake hadn’t told you that his father was in the business, or that his sister trained cutting horses. You’d told him that when he’d come up behind you, thick arms snug around your waist.

Resting his chin in your curls as you stared into one of the stalls, he’d simply shrugged and chuckled, joking how he wanted you all for himself—and that if he’d told you about the ranch, you’d be in for “all the wrong reasons.”

Joking, the comment had made you both chuckle as you’d watched the mare nudge her foal with her soft nose, prodding him to walk around the freshly bedded stall.

The best kind of silence unfolded between the two of you, before Jake’s nose nuzzled behind your ear, a thick kiss pressing against your soft skin.

“I gotta talk to you about somethin’,” he’d breathed against your pulse point, his other hand slowly skimming down your curves to land at your waist, “and you aren’t gonna like it, Peach.”

Then he’d told you about the call from Pete. That he needed to get back to San Diego, that papers had come in for him last minute. You’d whirled around so fast in his arms that you’d knocked Jake off his orbit, sending him stumbling a few steps back as you braced against the stall, eyes wide and fearful at realization of what it meant.

He’d be gone for seven weeks. Overseas, running flight simulations. Nothing terribly dangerous but he’d still be gone—and he wanted you to stay here, with his family. Pouting, you argued the point that your life was with him in San Diego, not in Texas. That you couldn’t just uproot your life for a month and a half to run to Austin and hang out at the Seresin ranch like this was some Hallmark movie.

This was his third deployment since you’d started dating. Never mind that it meant good things for his career, that he was in with the right people and drawing the right attention—you were selfish, wanted him home. Slowly you were building a life together and Jake Seresin wasn’t in it nearly as much as you wanted him to be.

Sure, he was one of the best. Cream of the crop, really. But he was yours. Telling him to his face had put a startled look of pleased and surprised on his face, one that had him smirking and trying to fight off a chuckle.

He’d attempted to blow off your reaction. Tied to distract you with that seductive look of his, but that had only pissed you off. “I can’t believe you’re laughing about this!” had been what you’d boomed in his face before stalking out of the barn, hot tears brimming in your lashes.

It wasn’t his fault. The reasonable side of you knew and understood that this was his life, his job, something he’d committed to before you came into his life. It didn’t make it any easier. You were proud of Jake for his career, for pursuing something he loved and mastering the shit out of it—but playing second fiddle to his sixty million dollar aircraft and Uncle Sam?

It was exhausting. Demeaning. And, it was taking Jake from you.

Eyes tracking yours, it’s more painful than you ever thought it could be.

“It’s okay, sweet girl. I’m coming back,” he’s chortling in disbelief, shaking his head slowly while his hands come to hold your face gently, “It’s only seven weeks, Peach,” that sweet and ridiculous nickname rolls off his silver Austin tongue like you always dreamed it would. It should make you smile, but all it does is send a flare of painful heat into your chest.

“Seven more weeks, Jake,” your eyes drop to his chest, tears sliding down your face freely, now, “I don’t know that I can let you go again,” his hands firm up around your face and he lowers his forehead to yours, his nose brushes the tip of yours lightly, affectionately.

“You can,” his breath is hot, laced with cinnamon from what you can only guess is one of those flavored toothpicks, “I need you to. Gotta have someone to come back to, my girl.”

Your sniffle is aggressive before you drop your head to his chest, clinging to the Longhorns t-shirt that has become a staple in any of Jake Seresin’s weekly outfits. Corded, thick arms wrapping around you, he holds you against his chest, chin in your hair, letting you sniffle and pout at the Navy, at the world, against him.

Your anger at him begins to fade, slowly. Rationale hits, and you blink back the crocodile tears that seem more ridiculous than they had minutes ago. Lifting your head, Jake angles to consider your face, which is now certainly the most unattractive blotchy red you can imagine. The corner of his mouth ticks up in a smile as his big thumbs begin to brush away the bubbled tears beneath your lashes.

Eyes tracking to his shirt, the Longhorns logo is dark with wet tears, and your paw at it with an embarrassed chuckle. Jake takes your wrist in your hand, chuckling, before taking your chin between his fingers lightly to tip your face up.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, closing your eyes as inability to stare into his face consumes you, “I’m selfish and don’t want you to leave.” A frosty little pout sets into the back of your words, and your toes curl in your sneakers, as if it’ll help hold onto the sentiment and give it purpose.

He snorts. “You absolutely are selfish,” he’s laughing now, and you playfully sock his huge bicep, which hardly moves him at all. Protesting, he brushes your hand down and grabs the front of your jean shorts, fingers slipping through belt loops to shuffle you close against him. “But I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t sexy as hell seeing you all selfish over me, sweet girl.”

You smirk at him as he kisses the corner of your mouth. “When do you have to be back in California?”

“Tonight,” he hasn’t stopped lightly kissing your jaw, his fingers skipping softly under the hem of your shirt. “I’ve gotta catch a plane here in a couple hours.” The thought sends a pang of sadness to your gut as he adds, “Mama wants you to stay here, like we planned. I told her I didn’t know if you’d come home with me or what.”

Jake’s softly suckling at the juncture between your clavicle and neck, his tongue lathing thick, hot circles into your flesh. Biting the inside of your cheek, you can’t think of anything worse than being in San Diego alone, again, for seven weeks. But you also can’t imagine being that far from home either. Staying means getting to know Jake’s family in intimately embarrassing detail, but going means you’re home, in your own bed, waiting for him.

“I’ll stay for a couple of days,” you decide, humming softly as his kisses grow in ferocity and you chuckle, “I’m not quite ready to give up your mother’s cobbler just yet. Haveta prepare for withdrawals on that one,”

You feel his smile spread across your skin as he draws back, eyes scanning yours fully. “I love you,” his thick accent drops to what should be an illegal low, “and I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” your jaw sets a little, wanting him to be sorry but also understanding it isn’t fair, “just be quick, Jake.” It’s your turn to take his face in your hands, and you guide him down a little to brush your lips against his. “Come home to me quickly, flyboy.”

He nods. “Yes’m,” before his arms pull you in for another tight hug, chest crushing against yours, “drive me to the airport so you can kiss me goodbye?” It’s a question, but the way he asks it, matched with the expression on his face, says it’s expected more than it is requested.

Smiling softly, your eyes drop to his mouth. “Only if you ask nicely,” you draw up on your toes to kiss the corner of his mouth ever so lightly, “kiss me, Seresin. There’s a lot of days you won’t be able to the next seven weeks.”

He hums his approval before kisses you hotly, fully, his mouth nearly devouring yours as his tongue skips across your bottom lip, nearly to the back of your throat. Jake is a Frencher, and he wastes no time thoroughly tasting the velvet warmth of your mouth, leaving you breathless for a moment when he breaks from you to draw in a thick, chest-swelling breath of air.

His fingers are tugging through your hair pleasantly as he tips your head back to pepper kisses at the hollow of your throat. Nearly melting, Texas sunlight kissing your face with its pleasurable light, you feel the rumble in his chest as he brushes aside your bra and tank straps, pressing a searing kiss to the soft flesh of your shoulder.

“Is that all you want, baby girl? Is for me to kiss ya?”

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valmare · 1 year

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Alrighty, I'm going there. For the previously discussed Cyclone thoughts ;).

If you'd like, could I please get Beau Simpson with "Get over here and let me touch you?"

Congrats on 100+ followers, love! You deserve it! :D

Stix, my love! Oh boy, this was a challenge! I wanted to do something a little diffierent with this prompt. It's a little fluffy, a little sexy, and something I think may be one of my favorite blurbs of this entire challenge. Enjoy, babe, and thanks for following!

Only the Pretty Ones

It’s a little after ten when the cold blast of the Hard Deck’s AC chases sticky humidity off your skin, and for a second all you can feel is relief as you step through the doors into the absolutely charged atmosphere of the Navy bar.

Bodies are everywhere. Twisting in dances, tied up in one another, others standing around nursing drinks; more lingering at the bar, trying to catch glimpses of the pretty bartender that’s subbing for Penny Benjamin tonight. More move about the pool tables and dart boards, loud and welcoming, and your general consensus in the room is that not only does Penny run a tight ship, but everyone seems to generally be having a decent time.

Low, glowing light in the place is a decision that’s common for bars like this, and whether or not it’s intended to hide sins really isn’t the concern as you step aside from the door, eyes scanning the pulse of the room as your heart picks up behind your ribs just a tick, matching the energy of the room.

The back of your mouth needs a drink as your eyes track around the room. You bristle when the thick, rough hand finds the small of your back, which is exposed in the backless sundress you’ve been wearing all afternoon. Mostly from the sunburn that’s fevered your skin, but also because it’s sexy as sin.

The Kinks kick on over the sound system at the exact moment he gently shuffles you away from the busyness of the bar’s door, hand still at the small of your back. His mouth brushes against the soft skin of your temple, raising goosebumps down your arms. Blinking, you gently let your head angle to the side as his hands find your hips, holding you gently in place.

“Gin and tonic?” The seasoned gruff in his voice is sinful, your breath catching in the back of your throat. You can feel the smile spread across his mouth, which is still brushing your temple, and he inhales a full breath of the perfume you’re wearing.

He thinks he knows you so well. He does, really, but you suppose that comes with a year of seeing each other. But, Beau Simpson is smug about these kinds of things, mostly because he’s a cocky son of a bitch that sits on a horse higher than any of the damn pilots he commands probably could ever fly.

But it’s not really in a bad way—or at least, from what you’ve ever witnessed. Men under his command would swear he’s the antichrist, but all you’ve ever really witnessed from Cyclone is an insane amount of confidence, with a bit of selfishness peppered in here and there unless corrected. He’s not really the heartless cocksucker everyone makes him out to be—he’s rough around the edges, steadfast and calculating, but not mean spirited. He’s actually about the most understanding and upstanding man you’ve ever dated—something attributed to the fact that he’s nearly two decades older than you.

On the whole he’s an entirely different man around you, and you’ve witnessed how he treats those under his rank. You don’t know much about the military, but you know about the nature of pilots and the firm hand they require— so you assume it’s a persona thing.

“Cyclone” is someone he has to be, for the sake of his job—but Beau Simpson, when he walks through the door of his immaculate house in Mission Beach, is someone else entirely.

At least, to you.

You’d met him not long after his divorce, in the most cliche, Hollywood way possible—you’d blown a tire on the I-15, after a long three days traveling, and your spare was flat, probably just to spite you. As a capable young woman living independently in California, changing a tire was not the end of the world and was something you had managed to handle yourself before.

Defeated at the flat, you’d resigned yourself to calling a tow truck and waiting out rush hour on the side of the freeway right when the biggest Ford F-250 you’d ever seen merged onto the shoulder, hazards flashing, and Beau Simpson had stepped out of the cab in all of his six foot glory.

Broad shouldered, sunkissed, and sporting the classic aviators that seemed to be a staple personality to the pilots at Top Gun, he’d jogged over to you and asked if you needed any help. He couldn’t be any more military in his khakis, that hugged his perfect form just so, and you’d nearly stood there agog when he popped into a squat to check your rim, his ass perfectly filling the uniform pants in ways that the military should be ashamed of.

Offering to give you a ride with a smile and a handshake, he slid the glasses up into his hair. Sunlight set off the fiercest green eyes you’d thought possible in a human being, and they had nearly sparkled with intelligence and his dry humor. Suddenly sweating, feeling every inch of the four hours of sleep you’d managed the night before and small, you’d accepted his offer of a ride on the pretense that he didn’t murder you with an ax and bury you at some military training facility.

It was a flat joke, you realized, probably insulting and insanely stupid. You’d been kicking yourself in the ass as you ducked into the passenger side to grab your purse and the luggage you’d been lugging across the world, thinking that this was the most awful scenario to end the worst trip ever, but he’d started laughing and had been genuinely amused by the joke.

Insisting he help you with your gear, he’d hiked the duffle bag onto his shoulder and winked, nodding to the F-250 with an amused smirk. “Would you like a background check?” Luggage still balanced on his shoulder, his arm moments from ripping out of his uniform sleeve, he’d popped the door on the truck, offered his hand, and helped you into his beast of a machine.

You’d smiled, trying to fight the color on your face. “Make it a habit to pick up women on the I-15, do you,—” you’d glanced at the decorum on his breast, unable to make heads or tails of it, and he’d noticed. “— oh, shoot—” you hadn’t realized any attempt at a comeback had unraveled, making you sound one hundred and fifteen percent ridiculous.

He’d just laughed. “I’m a Vice Admiral, but you just call me Beau,” he’d adjusted the pack on his shoulder, but you doubted he felt any of the weight at all, “And I only stop for the pretty ones, honey.” His wink had started the long line of nails in your proverbial coffin, your gut freefalling into your knees.

He’d tossed your stuff in the box like it didn’t weigh the 42 pounds the airport had charged you for. Batting the door closed with his gargantuan hand, he’d jogged around the front of the pickup and eased himself up into the cab like it was nothing.

Leaving your car on the interstate as you drove away with a complete stranger, iPhone in hand the entire time, looking back, had been the biggest concern for your day. But, really, Beau had offered to tow your car home once he picked up some ropes, and from there the rest was history.

You’d offered to pay him and he had strongly refused. Instead he’d asked for your number, in that masculine and old-fashioned way, if you were comfortable with it—that stupid little Camry that had broken down on the side of the road had been the beginning of the rest of your life.

Like a true flirt, you’d plucked the pen from his breast pocket, and scrawled your name and number on the back of his hand as if this was 1986 and cell phones weren’t even a thing. Unable to remember the time you’d actually had to remember a phone number, it had come as naturally as breathing. It shouldn’t have, but it did.

“Consider us even then, Admiral,” he’d stepped through the door, into your space, his six foot self towering you in the best way possible. Staring down into your face, mere inches from sharing air, he’d plucked the pen from between your fingers with a little smirk. “Thanks for all your help. I really appreciate it. Are you sure you won’t take any money?”

He’d chuckled and it had punched you right in that sensitive little place that didn’t get nearly enough of the right attention. Lowering his hand between the two of you, he’d pointed a finger at the number you’d printed on the back of his hand, his smile slow and calculating as it split his lips.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am. This right here is the best payment a man could ask for.” Without anything more, he’d marched out of your doorway back to his pickup, leaving you and your clunky little Camry in his heady wake.

More than promptly you’d taken a cold shower, unsure if you were thrilled or regretting giving him your number.

It had taken him three days to text you back. Wondering if it had been on purpose you’d nearly pounced at the phone to respond back to his invitation to take you to dinner to a place not on the cheap—at all. It required heels and a dress, at the very least, and Beau was actually going to pick you up in that sexy ass pickup you hadn’t stopped dreaming about since it had merged onto the shoulder.

Not really thinking twice, and really not caring if it was appropriate or not, you’d said yes—and he’d picked you up on a Friday and taken you to the grandest dinner ever. Everything about Beau Simpson was so very unlike any of the last dates you’d been on in the year before he’d entered your life, and that was probably because he was a man, not one of the drop-crotch pants wearing soft boy’s Tindr tried to hook you up with.

His hands firming up around your waist send a bolt of pleasure down your spine. Brushing against his firm chest, you turn in his hands to kiss the corner of his mouth lightly, reaching on toes to whisper into his ear, “You find us a table with that intimidating death stare of yours, and I’ll grab the booze,” before slipping away to make for the bar.

Laughing and shaking his head as you split up, you’re weedling your way up to the bar right at the moment the bartender turns to acknowledge you. She’s nobody you know, but she’s about your age, complete with blond hair pulled back into a braid and the wildest makeup you didn’t think existed off the red carpet.

You ordered a Whiskey Sour with Woodford for Beau and your usual Gin and Tonic, resting your forearms on the bar’s surface as your foot lifted to the foot rail running the length of the walnut bar. Setting to work immediately on your drinks, it took less than a minute for a familiar face to recognize you, sliding into the spot at your right with a bright, goofy smile on his face.

“Well look who it is,” his soft greeting welded your attention to him nearly immediately, and your face split into a wide grin as he leaned heavily on his arm. “Hello, ma’am.”

Every one of the Top Gun aviators that pass in and out of Cyclone’s base had resorted to calling you “ma’am,” since that unfortunate mishap with Omaha last year. The poor soul had thought you were a pretty little thing sitting alone at this very bar, and had taken it upon himself to buy you a drink. Not knowing that Beau was meeting you here, he'd nearly died why Cyclone had chased him off with that sour expression of his.

“Bob Floyd,” you reached across to lightly punch his shoulder, “it’s good to see you! I heard you got papers to come back! When’d you get in?” He smiles at you in that sheepishly small way, a little flush rising to his cheeks when he realizes people have taken notice of your clear, loud voice drawing attention to him.

“Yesterday morning,” he nods and lifts a shoulder, “it’s good to be back. Texas is great, but it’s nice seeing friends again. How’re you?” Bob Floyd is probably the sweetest human being that’s ever come through Top Gun, something that even Beau has confirmed—it’s no surprise he’s one of the best back seaters out there.

“And Nat? Is she here?”

He nods across the bar, to the pool tables–your gaze follows to find the pretty brunette laughing it up with some unfamiliar faces you don’t recognize, but know are one of Beau’s classes at the base. She’s beautiful, hasn’t changed a bit despite the fact she’d married last spring. You and Beau had flown to Miami for the wedding, a gorgeous affair that was small and close-knit.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Bob asks, gesturing to you with a hand. It isn’t presumptuous and he isn’t niggling his way into good graces—Bob is just a gentleman. He’s more of a little brother than anything, you couldn’t imagine anything more serious with Floyd, and you shake your head no after scrunching up your nose a little.

“Nah, you save your money for a pretty girl—I’ve got all the money I need, somewhere around here.” you pat his hand on the bar good naturedly as the bartender nudges the two drinks to you with her knuckles, you registering them with a nod and asking to put them, and whatever Bob will order, on a tab, “I should go find Cyclone, but it was great seeing you back in Cali, Floyd. Happy Friday!” You raise the drinks, stepping back from the bar.

“Good seeing you too,” he pushes off the bar as the bartender slides him a bottle of Grain Belt, and salutes lightly off his brow with a nod, “Say hi to the Admiral for me,” he calls forward, and you beam a bright smile to him before winking and turning on the heel of your wedge.

Sliding between bodies moving to and fro about the floor, you find Beau has secured a booth in the back, near the TouchTunes machine. Lord he cuts a fine figure, even if he’s starting to gray a little at the temples. For a man his age, for a man in general, you’re usually always a breath from salivating at his feet when he even dares to speak to you. That much hasn’t changed in a year.

His arm is draped back against the booth as he watches people, sunglasses and his well set aside on the surface of the table. Fingers drumming, he catches you in the crowd, the corner his mouth ticking up as he doesn’t even try to hide the once-over he takes of your body. Smirking at him as you approach, he shifts a little in the booth as you plunk the drink in front of him.

“Woodford, the way you like it,” you chime, and he thanks you with a low and raspy “baby,” tacked on at the end that makes your gut flop. Taking a slow sip of the Gin and Tonic that’s sweating between your fingers, you angle your head towards the bar.

“You’ll never guess who I saw at the bar, who I am only a little pissed you didn’t tell me was in town,” you whine teasingly, about to sit across from him. He shakes his head, sits up in the booth, and gestures for you to slide in next to him.

“Get over here and let me touch you,” he orders teasingly, crooking his finger for you to come. You set the drink on the table and he moves it beside his own before asking, brow lifted in interest, “Now who was at the bar?”

“Bob Floyd,” you slide into the booth, your side brushing up against his as you scooch under his arm, “I wish you would’ve told me they were coming, Beau. I’d have switched dinner with Warlock and his wife to have them over. I want to hear all about Nat’s time in D.C.”

“Sorry, baby,” he presses a kiss on top of your head, “I’ll remember next time.”

“The hell you will,” you try to sound serious, but his snort only makes you giggle.

You heave a deep sigh, thankful the week is over and that you can indulge in the throbbing headache of this place, your favorite place in Miramar to spend Friday night when the pilots are young, clumsy, and drunk. Watching them is a passtime, like dinner and a show, and oftentimes you and Beau commentate on the scenes you witness—thankful it isn’t you, trying to swim in a sea of crotch-twitching blowhards that don’t know the first thing about what a girl like yourself is looking for.

The two of you come here a lot, it holds great memories—this was the joint where Beau had first kissed you. Your third date, you’d been dancing and had absolutely killed him in pool in front of Warlock and the rest of the brass. Face flushed with one too many screwdrivers and your fill of greasy appetizers, you’d stumbled outside for fresh air, ready to call an Uber to take you home.

Then you’d been stupid, not realizing that Beau Simpson would be escorting you home every single night you ventured out with him. He’d followed you outside, asked you what was up, and had plucked your phone from your hand right as you’d opened the app to snag a ride. Not drunk or over the limit by any means, you were just a lightweight, and hated driving past midnight—and it was 2AM, close to last call.

Standing so close to you, smelling like cologne and whiskey and ocean, he’d slipped his fingers through your hair and told you he’d never let you go home with some stupid yahoo Uber driver who drove too fast and ogled too much.

Snorting out a laugh, you’d tried to shove him back playfully, but his hand had somehow perfectly fallen along your cheek, his fingers soft despite the fact he had a true man’s hands—his thumb had brushed the seam of your lips.

And even to this day, your heart had never thrummed harder in your chest as it had when you realized he’d wanted to kiss you. Eyes tracking your mouth, he’d hesitated only a moment, his chest brushing yours in a way that set off a nuclear bomb in your gut. Electricity had jumped up your arm, and you’d bit the bottom of your lip nervously, before leaning the rest of the way in and standing on your toes to brush your mouth against his.

He’d kissed you, like all the books and movies and songs talked about—slow, deeply, it had started off soft and tentative, like he wanted to make sure it was right, and that he was reading you properly. It didn’t take long for you to sigh into his mouth and reassure him that yes, he was divine and yes, this is what you wanted. At lightspeed, he’d deepened the kiss, his arms wrapped so thick around your middle that you could’ve sworn he would snap you in two.

You’d liked to say it was the best kiss you’d ever shared with someone, but somehow, Cyclone seemed to leave you breathless each and every time you dared to kiss him. That night was the first of many make out sessions that had left you reeling and heady—where Beau Simpson had learned how to kiss you didn’t know, but your ovaries were immensely grateful for it, even if they were on fire each and every time he simply looked at you.

Beau’s thumb slowly slides up and down your bicep in that lazy, pleasurable way he knows you love. Finger spinning along the rim of your glass, you watch the ice float in your cocktail, counting the beats of his heart as the silence grows between the two of you. It’s comfortable, just sitting like this, and you rest your other hand on his thigh, tracing his muscle through the denim of his jeans.

Lifting your hand off his thigh, he interlaces his fingers with yours, bringing them to his lips for a kiss. Your head leans back against his shoulder and you watch him brush his mouth along your knuckles, the stubble of his five o’clock shadow delightful against your fingers.

Figuring you could say the rest of your life like this, drinking on a beach, pressed up against him so perfectly, you don’t expect his heavy eyes to land on yours so quickly, looking so deep and rich as he tracks the features of your face.

“I want to talk to you about something,” he says smoothly, his voice low, whether from the whiskey or the look he’s giving you you aren’t sure, “but I’m not quiet sure what you’re going to think about what I have to say.” Oh, boy—the mind games.

One of the things you loved and hated about Cyclone was the way he set you up for a conversation. He had an intelligence that you’d never really quite figured out, which was probably why he was a phenomenal Vice Admiral and in charge of important people. Beau saw through situations, and people, like they were invisible, and he always had the right thing to say—even if it wasn’t always the textbook “right” answer.

Very often he played this game, forcing you to think a few steps ahead of him, which was hard.

“There you go assuming you think you know what I’m going to say before I say it,” you shoot back at him, your tone lifting a little to take some of the weight out the statement, “You should really stop doing that, Cy. It makes you look like an ass.”

He shrugged a shoulder, his smile slow and deliberate. “I’m man enough to admit I’m an ass, when the situation calls for it,” he reaches for his short glass, knocks back a rough drink, and scooches it aside. “But I’m pretty sure my reservations are valid—you could go either hot or cold on this one, sweetheart.”

“Maybe you should stop making assumptions and just tell me what’s on your damn mind, Simpson.” Mildly irritated he’s taken this this far, you gently shove off his chest to sit up against the booth, angling to face him with an elbow resting against the back of the booth.

Head plunking in your hand, you watch him smiling crookedly at the hang of your dress in this position, before snapping your fingers between the two of you. “Well, spill your guts, Admiral. I’m listening.” Your fingers drop from the cocktail glass to drum on the surface of the table, brow popped curiously.

His eyes skip over you and you watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows a breath, before his thick hand scrubs down the length of his face. His cheeks pop as he puffs out a heavy breath, sitting forward just a little at the table. Elbows propped on the surface, he rubs around his mouth before looking sidelong over at you, eyes dragging for a beat to the cleavage showboating over the top of your dress—it was intentional, this was a new bra, and you’d absolutely almost died at how perfect it had made your tits look at the boutique.

Your gaze pulls his back up. Nothing but heartbeats and moving air is between you, and the blaring music of what sounds like Elvis in coming from the speakers, but it’s almost wholly inaudible as you take a sharp pull of the Gin and Tonic. Unable to miss the heat rising on Beau’s face, your gut takes a nosedive into your knees—something was wrong. Simpson was never this reserved, this nervous, in the year you’ve been dating.

A man like him has little to worry about—his career is locked in, he’s gorgeous and financially stable, no kids to worry about at home. He’s got a rock steady relationship with a woman who adores him and would throw herself in front of a bus for him. The perfect truck, a phenomenal house that’s almost paid for, men and women who respect him in the Navy— it’s nothing but blue skies for Beau Simpson, or so it seems.

“Beau,” you challenge, your brow dropping seriously, “what’s up with you? Is something wrong?”

The smile splitting his lips is instant, and he chortles, shaking his head a little. “No, nothing is wrong,” he sits back sharply, lifting his hips off the booth for a second before his hand dives into the pocket of his jeans. “I guess that really just depends on you, honey.”

You barely notice him drop something to the table, his half-lidded look at you entirely too hot for this early in the evening. He sits forward, gaze dropping to track whatever’s in his hands. Blowing out another huge, steadying breath, he opens his palms and plunks a little blue box, wrapped in that iconic white bow, on the table. He’s staring at it like it’s likely to overrun him.

Your heart is in your throat before it drops to your knees, spinning in ways that has thrown the room simultaneously into a kaleidoscope of colors, and a slow motion picture show. Suddenly there’s just you and Beau Simpson in empty space, the Hard Deck and its crowds and blaring music forgotten, and all you can feel is the rattle of blood between your ears, the racehorse of a heart galloping behind your ribs.

Your eyes are cemented on that box and that box alone, and you realize you aren’t breathing when you release a squeak of a breath for air. Barely able to remember your own name in the presence of such a small object, you don’t even feel Cyclone reaching for your arm to gently slide you across the seat, back beneath his arm.

He’s wrapped you in a hug against his chest, both of you just staring at the blue box. Dumbfounded, your lips part and close like a fish out of water, and you swear to God that Beau can either feel your heart throbbing out of your body, or is ready to catch it when it leaps out of your chest. Fairly certain that your heartbeat could power a small city with how hard it’s beating, you swallow a thick, painful breath of air that’s trapped at the back of your throat.

“See, baby, I never really thought I’d ever be doing this again,” his hand moves to lightly play with the ruffle at the top of your chest, dangerously close to touching the swell of your cleavage that he now has perfect view of, “but I figured since I found the perfect girl, I’d better at least try to get her to marry me before I’m officially old.”

You angle away from his chest to stare into his face, fascinated that this is even a statement that Beau Simpson has wasted breath on. Biting at the corner of your lower lip, the corner of his mouth ticks up into a pleased smile as color fans over your face. He’s chuckling when he touches his forehead to yours, his nose brushing against the tip of yours so perfectly.

You manage to squeak, “Beau,” before your eyes track back to the little box. He’s already reaching for it, popping it open with a hand while his other is lifting your left one to the table. A little gasp sneaks out of your throat as your other hand comes to cover your mouth, hoping it’ll help you breathe.

He doesn’t seem to register that you’re shaking, and even if he does, he says nothing. His lips across across your cheek as he presses a soft kiss to your temple again, easing out a slow, “I’m asking you to marry me, pretty,” you can taste the Woodford on his breath as his arm pulls you a little closer against his chest, “It’s usually customary that you actually say something.”

With that, he rests his chin on the top of your head as he plucks the ring from the little box, guiding it onto your left finger easily, like he’s spent a lifetime doing it. It’s an emerald-cut, haloed in diamonds on what you think is a platinum band, and even the shitty lighting of Penny’s bar makes the thing radiate like the sun.

It’s perfect on your finger, everything you’d ever imagined an engagement ring to look like. Fisting your hand a little to test its fit, it couldn’t be any more secure on your finger. Somehow it looks like it belongs there, like it’s been there forever—like it was made, exactly, for you.

Your mind is flopping trying to imagine how much a diamond of this size actually costs before you remember that Simpson is right—that you’re supposed to say something, and actually answer his question.

But really he should know he doesn’t even have to ask, because your “Yes, yes, of course!” is enunciated what little effort you're exuding to control your sobs. You can’t imagine your makeup is going to withstand a marriage proposal, and you reach for a sharp drink of the Gin and Tonic.

Beau is laughing as you take the shot of liquid courage, and he pulls the ring to his lips to press a kiss into it, as if it’ll seal the entire deal. Downing the rest of the cocktail, the glass topples over as you practically hurl it back to the tabletop, moving in to press a full, hasty kiss to his mouth.

Enunciating what feels like a thousand “Yes’” between every breath, he guides you to straddle his massive thigh as you stare down into his face, searching his eyes. You can feel his heart against your breasts, abs that shouldn’t be nearly as hard on a man his age rock solid beneath your hand as your knuckles brush beneath his naval, tantalizingly.

“I can’t think of anything better than being the Mrs. Cyclone,” your forehead touches his, sweetly, and you kiss the tip of his nose lightly. “Your ex wife is gonna flip out.”

“I was hoping you’d agree,” he groans a little when you clench against his thigh, the jeans absolutely perfect against the heat of your core. “And we won’t tell Celeste just yet, hm?”

You giggle, drawing your left hand between the two of you, eyes casting down to the Tiffany ring he’s placed on your finger. “And let me just say, Vice Admiral Simpson—you have one helluva taste in jewelry.” He dares to question if you like it, and you give a firm nod, “Of course I love it,” you draw back enough to wrinkle your nose disgustingly, as if this is even a question, “I’d love it if it was a ring from a quarter gumball machine. Duh.”

He laughs, head kicking back against the booth to stare down at you lowering to lay against his chest. His hand moves to skip a lazy finger down the length of your spine, gentle enough to mind the sunburn that’s still flaming on your skin.

“I didn’t think I could love you any more than I do, Cyclone,” you press a kiss to either of his pecks, which are pronounced in the far too tight t-shirt he’s wearing, “but this is a whole new level, baby.”

“Glad to hear it, honey. That makes me a happy man.”

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