Free Can't Hold Back by Serena Bell

knowing they’d all done the same stupid shit—made promises and believed promises made to them. So he said what they were all thinking: “That sucks.”
    Griff nodded. And Tron said, “You think the Seahawks are going to the Super Bowl again this year?”
    Because. Because you moved on, or you got stuck stewing in it.
    But Nate kept thinking about it, about Griff’s wife, and how she’d broken her promise. How she hadn’t been who he’d believed she was. And about Becca, and those crazy hybrid letters, which had made him lose his mind with longing. He’d come home on leave, feeling like he
had
to see her. Had to show her how much he’d come to care. Had to tell her he’d fallen in love with her.
    Her—Becca, that is.
    He’d ignored the dissonance that had been there from the very beginning. His vague discomfort, the unsettling sense that the letters didn’t
match.
He’d gone back to Afghanistan feeling
fond. Affectionate.
He’d had a good time with Becca, he’d found her good company, if not terribly lively. Drawing her out, getting her to tell him, for example, what she’d thought of a movie they’d seen together—it had been
work.
And not the most rewarding work, either. She was timid, unwilling to express too strong an opinion. She’d seemed a little afraid of him. Afraid of herself.
    Unlike the letter writer. So much gutsiness and strength in those letters, no fear of broaching any topic at all. No fear of him. Opinions aplenty.
There’s no shame in bailing when your time’s up. You should be doing something you love.
    He’d somehow missed the echo of his conversation with Alia at the picnic. How could he have missed that?
    Does it help at all to know I think you’re a really good person, even if some days you wonder?
    Not words that would have come out of Becca’s mouth, or off the end of her pen. How could he have missed
that
?
    The letter writer wasn’t someone you could feel fond of. Not someone you could feel lukewarm toward. She was someone you could
crave.
She was someone who could make waiting a few days for a flight out feel like an eternity.
    And then there was the kissing.
    Kissing Becca had been—lukewarm, he’d have to say. Uninspired. Becca had been meek and self-conscious in his arms, willing but passive, but the woman on the other end of those letters had known exactly what she wanted.
    He’d told her. Becca. It was one of the first things he’d said to her when he got off the plane, after another of those surprisingly uninspired kisses, a huge disappointment after all the built-up anticipation.
    I feel like you’re really different from your letters. I feel like
we’re
really different from how we were in those letters.
    She’d gotten this look on her face. And he’d started to backpedal, not wanting her to feel like it was a criticism, when all he was trying to say was,
I wish you’d let her come out, that woman you are on paper. I wish you’d be more that way in person. I know you have it in you. Maybe if we work together, we can close the gap.
    Then, slowly, haltingly, awkwardly, so apologetically, she’d told him the truth.
    It had taken the breath out of his chest. He understood the cliché
crushed
for the first time.
    But
he should have known.
    “Nater?”
    He wasn’t sure where that nickname had come from. He’d always been straight-up Nate with his squadmates, even though a lot of the other guys had nicknames.
    “Just thinking.”
    “One more hand?”
    “Sure, what the fuck.”
    He suddenly remembered something he’d made himself forget. Made himself block out, because it had been so much part and parcel of his disappointment.
    That last instant message exchange, with
MenInUni242.
God! How could he have forgotten those?
    I want your tongue all over me.
    I want you to pin me down.
    I want your cock in my mouth. As much as I can hold.
    He’d been shocked by her boldness. Because of the contrast with how she—
Becca
—had been in his arms.
    And so when