Page 4 of Stalked By the Quartermaster

And me? I'm here, caught between wanting to watch her walk away and needing to get my head back in the game.

I watch Caroline glide between the bunks, her presence commanding yet graceful, an ethereal contrast to the rigid lines of military order around us. She's like a breath of fresh air in this stale room, and every step she takes stirs something deep inside me. I can't help but think about last night, lying in my bunk, the fantasy of a woman just like her seeping into my dreams—golden hair, eyes that could strip a man bare with one look.

"Need a hand with anything, Sergeant?" Her voice is playful, distracting me from my thoughts.

"Got it under control," I shoot back, but damn if I'm not imagining those slender fingers running over more than just inventory sheets. There's a warmth spreading through me, pooling low in my belly, and it's all because of her. Never thought I'd see my dream girl in the flesh, but here she is, flesh and blood and walking temptation.

Our gazes lock, sudden and electric, and I swear the air between us crackles with heat. It's a flash, a moment charged with something raw and undeniable. For that split second, it feels like we're the only two people in the world. My heart hammers against my ribs, and there's a tightening in my jeans that has no place in the middle of a barracks inspection.

"Everything looks shipshape, Private Caldwell," I manage, my voice gruff as I break away from her gaze.

"Thanks, Sergeant." She flicks me a smile, and even though it's quick, it's like a shot of whiskey, burning through me and leaving me light-headed.

Fuck, this is bad. But it's the kind of bad that feels too good to walk away from.

I shove my hands in my pockets and try to focus on the damn checklist. It's just paper, numbers, black ink that I usually can handle without a second thought. But today, those numbers might as well be hieroglyphics for all the sense they make. My brain's fried, sizzling with a current that's got Caroline Caldwell's face stamped all over it.

"Everything okay, Sergeant?" Her voice cuts through the static in my head, and I almost flinch. Like she knows she's the one turning my thoughts to mush.

"Fine, Private. Just fine." My words are more growl than speech, but I can't help it. She's like a grenade that's gone off in my personal space, and I'm scrambling to keep my shit together. Duty versus desire, and I’m caught dead in the crossfire.

I catch her watching me with those blue eyes, curiosity lighting them up like she's stumbled upon a secret. Does she know? Can she tell how much she's rattling this old cage?

There's an edge to her, a sharpness that says she’s no stranger to breaking a few rules herself.

"Carry on, Caldwell." It's a dismissal, but my eyes cling to her like I'm some green recruit and not the man who's supposed to have his act together.

She nods, but as she turns to leave, she throws a look over her shoulder—a look that's all challenge and heat—and it hits me square in the chest. She knows. Goddammit, she knows.

I straighten up, clipboard in hand, and try to focus on the inspection checklist. Beds? Check. Boots lined up like soldiers ready for parade? Check. My mind's marching orders are clear, but damn if it doesn't go AWOL every time I steal another glance at Caroline.

I could be imagining it, but her eyes are doing things to me that should be classified top secret.

Another private asks me a mundane question, and I grunt, not trusting myself with more words. 'Cause right now, my thoughts are anything but orderly. I'm imagining Caroline, her golden hair spread across my pillow, those blue eyes dark with desire. Shit, the things I want to do to her. The ways I want to make her moan my name...

I shift uncomfortably, feeling my body respond to the vivid images in my head. It’s like I’m a damn teenager again, getting hard at just the thought of her. Except I'm not some horny kid. I'm a superior officer. This is so far past inappropriate, it's headed for court-martial territory.

Caroline tidies her locker, her movements deliberate, almost teasing. She bends over to pick up a stray sock, and I catch myself holding my breath. The barracks suddenly feel ten degrees hotter.

As she passes by, close enough for me to catch the scent of her shampoo, I have to remind myself to breathe. This tension between duty and desire is a minefield, and I'm about to step right into it.

The door shuts, and her silhouette vanishes like a dream that clings to the morning sun. My heart's doing this stupid hammering thing against my ribs, and I can't tell if it's from the near miss of spilling my guts or the aftershock of her presence.

"Shit," I mutter under my breath, pressing a hand to my forehead. If the guys could see me now, they'd have a field day with this. Quartermaster Sergeant Frank Donovan, brought to his knees by a blue-eyed vixen in camo.

I square my shoulders and take a deep breath, trying to get a grip. Duty. Honor. Chain of command. They're supposed to mean something, aren't they? But then there's Caroline—with those eyes that seem to strip me bare and leave me exposed, more than any physical undressing ever could.

I shake my head as if I can physically dislodge the image of her from my brain.

But as I head back to my office, all I can think about is tomorrow's debrief. It's a routine meeting, nothing special—except she'll be there. And 'routine' flew out the window the moment our eyes met.

The thought of seeing her again sends this electric current zipping through me, lighting up parts I thought had gone numb years ago.

It's late when I finally hit the sack, but sleep doesn't come easy. Every time I close my eyes, I see hers—piercing, playful, full of secrets. I toss and turn, wrestling with sheets and the knowledge that Caroline Caldwell has somehow hijacked my every thought.

When dawn cracks through the barracks window, I'm already on my feet, running through a plan that's more fantasy than strategy. I’m going to see her, talk to her, and goddammit, I’ll keep it professional—even if it kills me.

Who am I kidding? I scoff, splashing cold water on my face. Professional went out the window when I let her get under my skin without so much as a touch.

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