Chapter 4
Fly By My Tower
West
Istood in front of the dresser mirror as my fingers worked the buttons of my shirt.
The collar wasn’t cooperating. One side kept flipping up like an unruly cowlick.
I flattened it with the precision of a man who had, at one point in his life, taught twenty recruits how to fold a uniform properly without crying.
Behind me, Brandt was sprawled across the bed like a cat. “You know,” he said lazily, “you really don’t have to get dressed right now.”
“I do,” I said. “Because if I don’t, I’m going to end up in a situation where we’re late, I’m half-naked, and you’re trying to convince me it’s ‘a vibe.’”
He rolled onto his stomach and reached into the drawer beside him. A moment later, something smacked against my hip.
Aviator sunglasses. I stared at them. Then at him.
“Try them on,” he said, grinning like he knew exactly how suspicious that sounded.
“What are you planning?”
“Nothing sinister. Maybe something sexy. Go on.”
I sighed, picked them up, and slipped them on. The mirror instantly reflected a version of myself that looked like I’d either stolen a fighter jet or was about to lecture someone on why Tom Cruise peaked in the 80s.
Behind me, Brandt made a low, appreciative sound. And then he was up—fast—and suddenly all hands and lips, pressing himself against my back, kissing the side of my neck like he thought he could short-circuit my brain if he just hit the right spot.
To be fair, he almost did. That two-day scruff rubbed my skin just right.
“You look hot,” he murmured, nosing behind my ear. “Like… criminally.”
I didn’t hate it. My brain had shifted into neutral, and maybe I was ready to roll with whatever this was.
“Great Balls of Fire,” he whispered.
I froze.
He grinned, pulling back enough for me to catch the look in the mirror. “You know. Top Gun. Meg Ryan. The whole—hey Goose, you big stud—take me to bed or lose me forever?”
I turned to him slowly. “What the fuck, Reaper?”
“Keep the glasses on,” he said, pushing them back up my nose when I tried to take them off.
“We’re not doing this.”
“Yes, we are.” He kissed my throat. “Come on, West. Fly by my tower.”
I choked. Physically choked. “Okay. I’m not even hard now.”
He tilted his head, completely unbothered. “I am. And for what I have in mind, I don’t really need you to be.”
His hands dipped dangerously low. I pushed him off with a groan. “Brandt, no.”
“Don’t lose that loving feeling, West.”
“Oh my God. I hate you.”
He waggled his eyebrows. “Would it help if I rattled off the specs of a Sherman tank?”
I cracked. Laughed despite myself. “Maybe.”
Brandt leaned back, smug. “I wonder if we could get Anthony Edwards to narrate a military documentary. That would satisfy both of us, wouldn’t it?”
“How,” I asked, deadpan, “is this supposed to be sexy?”
He held my gaze. “It’s Top Gun. Everything is sexy if you don’t overthink it.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” I muttered, adjusting the sunglasses he’d shoved back onto my face. “I was born to overthink.”
He was on his knees now, crawling across the bed like he thought this was some kind of sexy runway. “Which is why I’m here. To save you from yourself. And from cargo shorts.”
“I don’t wear cargo shorts.”
“Not anymore,” he said smugly.
He reached for my shirt buttons, but I caught his wrist.
“Brandt.”
“West.”
“This is a military kink.”
He shrugged. “It’s a naval aviation fantasy. There’s nuance.”
“I swear to God—”
“Flyboys are hot! Come on, West. Live a little. Let me be your wingman.”
I stared at him, glasses halfway down my nose. “If you quote one more line from that movie, I will cite you under the Geneva Convention.”
He leaned in, lips grazing mine, warm breath teasing. “You can’t handle the truth.”
“That’s A Few Good Men.”
“Same vibe.”
“You’re deranged.”
“And yet,” he murmured, kissing just beneath my ear, “you still haven’t thrown me out of this room.”
I exhaled sharply, closing my eyes. Okay, fine. He smelled good. He was warm and persistent and stupidly hot when he was annoying.
Still. “You’re lucky I like you.”
He grinned against my neck. “I know.”
I sighed. “Just… stop calling me Goose.”
“What if I call you Iceman?”
“Iceman dies inside every time this happens.”
“That’s fair.”
His hands were under my shirt again, slow this time, almost reverent. The sunglasses were still on. Somehow, despite everything, I wasn’t stopping him.
He pulled back just enough to look at me. “You’re not going to lose that loving feeling, are you?”
I groaned. “You had me. And then you lost me again.”
He laughed, bright and unrepentant. “I’ll get you back.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I know.” His hands curled around my hips. “But you still haven’t said no.”
I didn’t. Not right away.
And maybe—God help me—I was starting to hum Danger Zone under my breath.