Page 15 of Forever Mine

Six months ago

It’s a Friday night, and I’m finally ready to go out.

My friends have been bugging me nonstop for months to hang out. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to, but it’s been extremely low on my priority list. After finishing my last deployment two years ago, during which time my divorce was finalized, I had absolutely no desire to go anywhere that counted as a social engagement. So I’ve spent the last two years quietly existing, finishing my twenty-six-year career in the Army, and getting my real estate license. I’ve already taken the next step and gotten my realtor brokerage license, and that’s how my friends finally convinced me to go out. To celebrate, they told me.

Funny how these nut jobs are showing me.

My three closest friends from the Army are here. Hard to believe that we all retired in the same area, but Colorado Springs has a massive military and retirement community. Jason technically didn’t retire here but moved here when the rest of us ended up here. DeMarcus and Tommy are due to retire within the next year. All four of us are currently single, and the three of them almost immediately left me at the bar to hit on women.

I see a stool open up at the far end of the bar and immediately grab it. I’ll wait a few minutes before I make my excuses and get the hell out of here. Enough time to grab another rum and coke. Yeah, my favorite drink is rum. Very masculine, I know. But it is the closest toCachaça, a Brazilian kind of rum. Kinda hard to find at run-down bars in Colorado, but I have a few bottles at home. I’m thankful for the ability to buy it online and ship it here.

As I take the last gulp of my drink, my eyes swing to the door as a beautiful little spitfire struts into the bar. Long, dark waves of hair cascade down her back. She’s wearing a tiny dress and killer heels, showing off calves I want to run my tongue along. Her eyes scan the bar and come to a stop on me. As our eyes meet, I feel my dick twitch.Porro. She’s beautiful. Tiny. At least a foot shorter than me. Italian maybe?

I realize I’m staring with my glass halfway to my mouth, and I blink, breaking the connection. Little spitfire turns and walks to the other side of the bar.

“Hey, man, I’m getting outta here,” Tommy says as he pats my shoulder harshly. “Got a live one.”

“Thought we were here to celebrate me,” I say dryly.

“Eh, you know how it is.”

“Hoes before bros, evidently.”

Tommy laughs, obviously not hearing the disdain in my voice. I shouldn’t have come out with them. They’re nice guys, but they’re flighty as fuck if they see a chance to get their dicks wet.

I watch Tommy drag a girl a good fifteen years younger than him out the door. I reach for my wallet and glance up to see the spitfire in an argument on the other side of the bar with a guy who looks familiar. I can’t place him, but I know I’ve seen him somewhere. It could just be from around town. My gut instinct, however, the gut that I’ve relied upon for the entirety of my Army career, tells me the guy isn’t good news. The guy shouts something and stalks out the door. The spitfire looks shocked and out-of-sorts. I find myself in front of her without even realizing that I moved.

“Are you okay?” I ask quietly. Her eyes travel to mine, and I’m taken aback at how beautiful they are. A smooth whiskey color. I feel myself getting lost in her eyes.

“Yes,” she says softly.

“What’s your name?”

“Monica.”

“Hello, Monica. I’m Gabriel.”

She stares at me. Before I can think about it, I cup her cheek before trailing one finger onto her neck. Her breath catches.

“Come home with me,” I whisper, almost not recognizing the sound of my voice. I feel an invisible magnet, a pull, tethering me to her.

She looks up at me, and I can’t help myself. I lean down and touch my lips gently to hers. She whimpers against my lips, and I groan. She gasps, and I slide my tongue through her open lips to circle hers. Her taste is intoxicating. I find her ass in my hands without realizing I’ve bent down to grab her. As I vaguely hear someone shout out that we should get a room, Monica breaks away from me and steps back.

“Oh my God,” she says as she touches her fingertips to her lips. “I can’t believe I just did that.”

“I’m sorry,querida, I wasn’t thinking,” I blurt out.

“What does that mean?” she asks.

“Querida?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, it means sweetheart in Portuguese.”

“Are you from Portugal?”

“No, my parents emigrated from Brazil when I was two.”

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