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313 pages, Kindle Edition
First published December 1, 2015


Semper Fi never ended. Faithfulness never ended.
Hollywood used the worst day of his life as entertainment.










Wrapped securely in his arms, she let the silence settle over her. She breathed in, breathed out, and knew she was alive. She breathed in, breathed out, and knew peace.Engaging secondary characters and a beautiful setting.
He could have been asking about any number of things, permission, affirmation that she liked the direction he was taking things, confirmation that he wasn’t hurting her. It didn’t matter. Her answer was the same. “Yes,” she said.
His mouth landed hot and heavy on her ear, the unpredictable combination of kisses, licks, and nips jolting her from shudder to pliancy and back again. There was no getting lost in what he did, mind wandering to the grocery list, much less spiraling into the barbed wire of anxiety. He commanded her attention as he gathered more of her hair in his hand, baring her nape to his mouth.
She braced her arms underneath her and pushed up. He didn’t take more of his weight but rather made her bear it, giving her something to writhe against. This was real, physical, definitely not in her head. She tipped her head forward, giving him full access to her neck, and felt the position resonate deep in her back brain. Pinned under a bigger, stronger male, oh yes.
She was watching, her pencil halted, midline, gaze fixed on his hand. He drew his fist up the shaft, slicked the precise around the head, stroked back down. Her gaze trailed up his torso, watched the muscles clench in his abdomen, then continued to his face. Knowing that his face had changed, he wondered what she saw, tried to discern it from the tiny shifts of muscles and the pattern of her breaths.
“That’s good, too,” she said, and resumed drawing, her arm moving in the big sweeping gestures of capturing the essence of a man with his cock in his hand.
It was need, he realized. She showed it in a completely different way, leaking out behind the tight restraints of blank expressions and not reacting. The deeper they sank into drawing and sex, the more she cracked. But he was the one in real danger. She drew him back into his body, made him want, made him feel; both those things would keep him from taking care of the people left behind.
He was on foot, unable to stop thinking about the sex he’d just had. That wasn’t “I didn’t die in Afghanistan” sex. It wasn’t “I didn’t die at all” sex. That was “I’m getting on with my life” sex. That was “you reorder my world” sex. That was “life will never be the same” sex. That was “I’m falling for you” sex. That was exactly the kind of sex he didn’t want to have.
He was her muse, helping her learn. But somehow this had become about him, not just Arden.
Without his knowledge, let alone his consent, whatever this thing with Arden was it wasn't just about her anymore. It was about him.
You have to go on living because you're alive. They aren't. To deny that, to live only for them, is to deny yourself.
Safety was an illusion. So was peace. But she could find calm in the chaos, a harbor in the storm, and be that for someone else.
"We all walk with ghosts, Arden."
