Chapter 15.
1303 Words
The hallway of the Smith house was a tunnel of shadows, illuminated only by the pale, silver ribs of moonlight filtering through the windowpanes. Briar felt as though she were floating, her feet barely touching the floorboards, anchored to reality only by the steady, unrelenting heat of Victor’s arm around her waist. He didn't just lead her; he navigated her, moving with a silent, tactical grace that ensured she didn’t so much as graze a doorframe.
When they reached her bedroom, the air was cooler, smelling of dried lavender and the faint, sweet scent of the vanilla candles she kept on her vanity. Victor didn't let go of her until he had guided her to the edge of the mattress.
Briar sank into the quilt, the softness of the bed making the world tilt slightly to the left. She let out a long, shaky exhale, her head falling back as she watched Victor’s silhouette. He didn't turn to leave. Instead, he dropped to one knee before her, a move so unexpected and humble that it made Briar’s heart stutter.
His large, calloused hands reached out, encircling her ankle. His touch was clinical yet searing, his thumb grazing the sensitive skin of her instep as he began to unlace the delicate straps of her black heels.
"Victor, you don't need to-" Briar started, her voice thick with the haze of the night.
"I am," he interrupted.
The words were final. He slid the first shoe off, setting it aside with the same precision he likely used to clean a rifle. Then he moved to the other, his head bowed, the moonlight catching the slight red shimmer in his brown hair and the harsh, clean line of his jaw.
As the second heel dropped to the floor, Victor didn't stand up. He stayed there, kneeling between her knees, looking up at her. In the dimness, his icy blue eyes had turned into bottomless pits of shadow, meeting her chocolate brown ones with an intensity that felt like a physical weight.
"Victor," Briar whispered.
The alcohol was a warm tide in her veins, but as she looked at him, the fog in her brain seemed to pull back, replaced by a crystalline, sharp-edged clarity. She knew exactly who he was, and she knew exactly what she wanted. She leaned forward, the pink silk of her dress rustling, bringing her face inches from his.
Victor didn't flinch, but she saw the muscle in his jaw jump. He stayed perfectly still, a man holding a position under fire.
"Briar, don't," he warned, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "You’re going to regret it in the morning. The tequila is talking."
Briar shook her head slowly, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders like frayed silk. "I might be slightly embarrassed in the morning, Victor. I might even be a little hungover. But I won't regret it."
She leaned in closer, the scent of his bourbon and sandalwood wrapping around her like a blanket. She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as she placed them on his broad, solid shoulders. The fabric of his charcoal shirt was cool, but the heat of the man beneath it was staggering. As she moved closer, her right hand slid upward, her palm cupping the nape of his neck, her fingers tangling in the short, coarse hair at the base of his skull.
"I'm going back," Victor said, his voice straining against the discipline that had been his only companion for eight years. "I'll be deployed again in less than two months, Briar. I’m a guest in this town."
"That doesn't really matter, does it?" she whispered, her breath ghosting over his lips. "The future isn't here yet. I think... I think we both need this. Right now."
The silence that followed was the sound of a fuse burning down.
Then, the distance became no more.
When their lips finally touched, it wasn't the soft, tentative kiss of a first date. It was a collision. It was as if a dam had finally buckled under the weight of an eight-year flood. All the pent-up energy, the suppressed longing, and the rigid discipline Victor had used to cage his own nature simply disintegrated.
A small, high-pitched gasp escaped Briar as Victor surged upward, his hands flying from his sides to claim her. One hand buried itself in the hair at the nape of her neck, tilting her head back to deepen the kiss with a ferocious hunger. The other landed on her waist, his fingers digging into the silk of her dress, pulling her flush against him until there wasn't a whisper of air between them.
The kiss was dark, deep, and tasted of bourbon and desperation. Briar’s hands left his shoulders, her fingers clawing into his hair, pulling him closer, needing to feel the rough, unyielding reality of him. Victor let out a low, guttural groan- a sound of pure, unadulterated surrender, and his grip on her waist tightened for a fraction of a second, his knuckles bruising against her hip before he forced himself to loosen the hold, as if terrified his own strength might break her.
Briar pulled at him, her body arching back, drawing him down onto the bed with her. Victor followed, his massive frame hovering over her, his elbows braced on either side of her head as the mattress dipped under his weight.
He suddenly wrenched his mouth away, his breath coming in ragged, tortured hitches. His pupils were so blown they swallowed the blue of his irises, leaving only a ring of fire. He shook his head, his forehead dropping to rest against hers.
"We shouldn't," he choked out, the word sounding like a prayer and a curse. "I shouldn't do this to you."
"We should," Briar breathed, her chest heaving, her gloss smeared and her lips swollen. She reached up, her thumbs tracing the hard lines of his cheekbones. "Stop being a General for one night, Victor. Just be the man."
"I’m leaving-" he started again, his voice cracking.
"And I said I think we both need this," Briar countered, her voice surprisingly strong, the Smith fortitude rising to meet his. "Labels and schedules and 'fun stuff' like that can be for later. I don't want a promise for two months from now. I want you. Now."
Victor closed his eyes, his muscles shaking with the effort of one last stand. He was a man of few words, a man who lived by a code of protection and self-sacrifice, but the woman beneath him was offering him the one thing he had forgotten how to take: peace.
"I don't have a condom," he murmured against her skin, the admission a final, desperate attempt at a boundary.
Briar didn't hesitate. She shifted beneath him, her legs tangling with his, her hands sliding down to the small of his back to pull him down into the heat of her.
"Then... pull out," she whispered into his ear, her voice a velvet command.
She leaned up, capturing his lips again, her tongue flickering against his in a way that made his last shred of resolve snap like dry kindling.
In that moment, the General was gone. The scars, the thorns, the twelve years of sand, and the tactical restraint all vanished, replaced by the raw, undeniable gravity of a man who had finally let go. Victor stopped fighting the tide and let himself drown in the sweetness of the baker, his hands sliding down to the hem of her pink silk dress as the moonlight watched them disappear into each other.
- Writer
