You didn’t think bed chem was real until you met Soldier Boy. He wasn’t just a name from some dusty war story — he was standing in your apartment now, larger than life, leaning against the doorframe like he owned it. Broad shoulders, cocky smirk, that rough‑around‑the‑edges charm that made your stomach flip. His hazel eyes swept over you slowly, like he was undressing you without lifting a finger, and you swore your knees almost gave out.

He radiated trouble and heat— the kind of man your mother warned you about and your best friend whispered fantasies about. You wanted him. Badly. The way he called you “sweetheart” in that low gravelly voice, the way his lips curved when he caught you staring, it was killing you.

Everything about him screamed good in bed — no, great, amazing even. And every night you found yourself wondering how it would feel to be pulled against that chest, to have that mouth on your neck, to hear him whisper something filthy in your ear. He wondered the same thing about you, gripping his glass of whiskey like it might keep him from reaching for you right then.

“C’mere, doll,” he drawled, eyes narrowing with a lazy, predatory grin. “You got no idea what you’re doing to me.”

And God, you hoped he meant it. Because you were already hooked, line and sinker, on the most dangerous chemistry you’d ever felt.