Written On His Skin Read online

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  Letters are magic, don’t you think? You could be anyone. I could be anyone. And then, suddenly, we’re more than anyone. We’re someone…

  When Abigail Trent agreed to write a letter to a soldier deployed overseas, she expected it to be a fleeting exchange. A friendly back-and-forth that ended barely after it began. She didn’t expect Theodore LaRoux.

  It isn’t strange that writing feels so good. It’s right. Here’s my secret: I like making you feel good…

  Abby didn’t expect Roux to be a living fantasy, either—sexy, smart and strong enough to star in every one of her dreams. So was it any wonder that when he asked for a photo, she sent one that would star in his dreams? The fact that it was a picture of someone else wouldn’t be a problem. After all, it’s not like they’d ever meet…right?

  Wrong.

  Are Cajun accents a kink? If so, they’re definitely one of mine after this sexy, body-positive, total pleasure of a book!

  TESSA BAILEY — NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  Written On His Skin is a dirty talking 30,000-word novella featuring a set-the-pages-on-fire Cajun hero and the curvy girl who wins his heart. HEA guaranteed.

  WRITTEN ON HIS SKIN

  SIMONE STARK

  Written on His Skin

  Copyright © 2017 by Simone Stark

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN: 978-0-9991923-0-6

  Published by RRS Publishing

  Cover Design by CRD Designs

  Editing by Julia Ganis at JuliaEdits.com

  For S,

  after all this time.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  HE ALMOST DIDN’T OPEN the letter.

  In seven tours of Iraq and Afghanistan as an Army medic, Special Forces operator and commanding officer, Sergeant Theodore LaRoux knew the drill. He’d seen the stacks of letters before—written by kids for school projects and by pious churchgoers who thought writing to a soldier would secure their place behind the pearly gates.

  During his first tour, he’d made the mistake of writing back to a seventh grader who’d obviously tossed the reply and gone on with his life. It wasn’t like Roux could blame him. He’d like to get on with his own life, too, far from the unrelenting dust and the boredom and the dread that lingered every day in this fucking nightmare of a place.

  But he learned his lesson, that reading letters written to some nameless, faceless Any Servicemember wouldn’t do anything but remind him that no one real was writing to him. And that no one cared enough to write back.

  That he was on his own.

  Since then, he’d left the letters for the greener guys. The ones who bitched about the heat of the Afghan sun and the cold of the desert nights. The ones who, Special Forces or not, thought about home more than they should. The ones who had pictures of their girls up all over the goddamned tents.

  The ones who believed that someone gave a fuck on the other end.

  The ones who believed in home.

  He wasn’t even certain how the letter landed on his cot in Yemen, but there it was when he returned—covered in dirt and grime and gun oil—from a two-week-long shitstorm of a mission that should have ended in the capture of a high-ranking ISIS operative, but instead ended with two of his best operators medevaced out of this hellhole.

  Maybe it was because of them that he did it.

  Or maybe it was because he was tired and filthy and had a moment of weakness.

  Or maybe it was because it was sitting in a pool of light, like it had been left by fucking angels.

  No. Not left by angels.

  Written by one.

  Dear —

  I’m sorry that I don’t know your name. It seems like a strange thing to write a letter to someone you don’t know. Not just someone you don’t know—someone you don’t even know the name of. Strange and, honestly? Kind of wonderful.

  You could be anyone. I could be anyone. And suddenly, we’re more than anyone. We’re someone. To each other. Letters are magic that way, don’t you think?

  Seven tours in Iraq, Syria and Afghanistan. SERE training. HALO jumping. Firefights in the desert he was sure he’d never survive. And two paragraphs of a letter from a stranger had his heart pounding faster and harder than it ever had.

  Her handwriting was fucking beautiful. All arcs and swoops, like nothing he’d ever seen. No measured loops. No perfunctory print. A masterpiece of script that seemed to prove she was writing honestly, without hesitation. It made him wonder what else she would do honestly and without hesitation.

  Fucking hell. He was hard as steel, and all because of her handwriting.

  He didn’t know if all letters were magic, but this one was. Absolutely. And then he read the next sentence, and he was under its spell.

  I could tell you all my secrets.

  His mouth went dry, and his knees—his fucking knees went weak. Roux sat on his cot, the technicalities of staying upright suddenly beyond him. The military should bottle this woman. She was the most dangerous weapon he’d ever encountered. Devastating and highly addictive.

  I should tell you that I don’t have many secrets, but for a moment, on paper, before you read any farther, right now, there’s so much possibility! I could be terribly, excruciatingly fascinating!

  I should also tell you that I’m not terribly fascinating. I’m not excruciatingly fascinating, either.

  Sorry.

  I’m just Abby.

  He hated that just. The way it broke up the truth of her. And as he stared at the word, wishing he could will it away, the truth of her rioted through him.

  She wasn’t just Abby.

  She was his.

  You see? Now that I’ve told you that, I don’t know what to say. It was much easier to write when you didn’t know that part. But my secret is out. I’m Abigail Trent. Anyway, my friend Julie volunteers with some of the military spouses up at Ft. Collins while troops are deployed. We’re in a book club together, and she picked the book this month. It was about the military, loosely, so she asked us all to join the campaign to write letters to…well…you, I guess.

  Spouses. Holy shit. What if she was married?

  He stiffened at the thought, at the idea that someone else was touching her. Was caring for her. Was holding her in the night.

  Fuck that. There was no way she was married and he felt like this.

  I was—am—happy to write. I like letters…they’re magic, remember? What else can I tell you?

  Everything. He wanted everything.

  I’m a veterinarian in Boulder, which is pretty much the job I’ve wanted since I was three years old and my next-door neighbor’s cat had kittens. After that, the floodgates opened, and I never looked back. I live with a cat and a dog, which I don’t think makes me that abnormal, but my mother thinks my living with more than one pet scares people away. She despairs of me ever finding what she refers to as “appropriate human companionship.”

  Roux relaxed, relief flooding through him. Not married. No boyfriend.

  And so fucking honest, it was beautiful. />
  So—yeah—I’m very pro animals. Basically, if it has fur, I want to touch it.

  He ran a hand along the months-old growth on his jaw. He had fur for her. And she could touch it all she wanted. His cock throbbed at the thought. At the idea of her soft hands—they were soft as silk, he was certain of it—on his cheek, his chest, his legs. In his hair.

  He wanted this woman’s touch like he’d never wanted anything in his life.

  Anyway, I’m not sure whether these are going to Ft. Collins soldiers—it’s possible your spouse is part of the program Julie works with?—or maybe these are going to troops from other places? You’ll have to fill me in on where you’re from and where you are when you write back. If you have time to write back, of course. I can’t imagine how busy you must be…wherever you are.

  “Wherever I am, I’m never too busy for you,” Roux vowed softly, his fingers running over her gorgeous handwriting.

  You shouldn’t feel like you have to write back.

  Though, of course, I’d like that.

  Of course he was writing back.

  Always,

  Abby

  Always Abby was right.

  Always and forever.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ABBY’S PHONE rang the moment she put the key in the lock of her front door—her sister’s ringtone. She paused on the wide front porch before opening the door, pulling the phone out of her bag with enough force to send her wallet, a lip balm, and a box of Tic Tacs crashing to the floor. Of course.

  She answered the phone as she crouched to collect her stuff. “Crud. Hang on, Kelly.”

  A bark came from the other side of the now unlocked but still closed door.

  “No barking!” she ordered as she shoved everything back in her bag and stood.

  The dog didn’t listen.

  She opened the door, catching the three-year-old chocolate lab as he leapt onto her. “Darcy. Down.”

  Darcy redoubled his efforts to get up.

  She sighed and gave in, rubbing his ears until he groaned. “If anyone knew how badly trained you are, I’d lose every patient I have.”

  “Abby,” her sister said, her voice far away.

  Abby repositioned the phone and dropped her bag to the floor as she closed the door and returned her attention to her sister. “Yes. I’m here. Sorry. Hey, Bennet,” she said, leaning down to pet the black cat weaving between her legs, before moving to collect the mail that had been dropped through the slot.

  “Do you have time to talk about Naomi’s birthday?”

  The cat sniffed at her sleeve and immediately turned away, reminding Abby that she was covered in, well, dog. She’d seen three puppies that day, and each had left her with presents of sorts. She wrinkled her nose, dropped the mail on a side table and peeled off her lab coat, already heading for the laundry room. “Naomi’s birthday in, like, four months?”

  “It’s not every day you turn three, you know.”

  “It sure isn’t,” Abby said dryly.

  “All the other moms are planning huge parties. Here’s what I’m thinking—”

  Kelly and her husband lived in Cherry Hills, a posh Denver suburb where they were experts at the game of competitive parenting. Well, Kelly was, at least. But Kelly had been an expert in competitive Kellying since she was born. And she always won. She was beautiful—silky blonde hair, rail thin, head cheerleader, married-the-quarterback beautiful. She’d literally married the quarterback, who’d then become an investment banker, allowing Kelly to spend her days on juice cleanses and in Pilates classes and thinking about what all the other moms did. And how to one-up them.

  If Abby didn’t love her sister so much, she’d hate her. Particularly now, chubby and frizzy-haired and covered in puppy pee.

  Kelly was still monologuing, so Abby felt only slightly guilty putting the phone down to take off her long-sleeved shirt and jeans and throw those in the wash, too, before opening the dryer and pulling out a pair of clean pajama bottoms and a tank top that read Wag More, Bark Less. She put the phone back to her ear as Kelly was saying, “—I mean, I can’t believe he’s not available. I should have started planning months ago.”

  “Wait. Who’s not available?”

  Kelly paused. “Musical Mark.”

  “Who is Musical Mark?”

  “Are you even listening? Only the best children’s musician in Denver.”

  Abby smiled. Only. “Of course.” She headed to the kitchen, Darcy on her heels, to find Bennet on the counter already, silently judging her for the dog t-shirt.

  “I mean, I can’t even imagine the looks I’ll get for only being able to book Noisy Nicolai.”

  It was possible Bennet was judging Kelly.

  Her sister kept going and Abby listened with half an ear, murmuring sympathetically on cue as she fed the animals and returned to the entryway to get the mail. She didn’t really know why she was so obsessive about the mail. It was never more than catalogues and bills.

  She paused at the plain white envelope, her name perfectly hand-printed in black ink, her gaze darting to the return address in the corner.

  Sergeant Theodore LaRoux.

  For the life of her she couldn’t say why, but standing there, holding that envelope, reading that name, her heart started to pound. And there was suddenly nothing more important than getting to the letter inside.

  “I gotta go, Kel. I’ll call you back.”

  She hung up without waiting for a response—something she’d no doubt pay for—and moved to the living room, dropping her phone on the couch before tearing open the envelope. She unfolded the letter, excitement and nervousness and anticipation flooding through her until she took in the black ink, lines and lines of strong, bold text, and she couldn’t explain it…but she felt as though everything was…suddenly…right.

  Abby,

  I’m Roux.

  “Roux.” She whispered the name, testing it on her tongue. Feeling a little guilty that she enjoyed it so much.

  Theodore LaRoux, but the only person who ever called me Theodore was my grand-mère, and even then, only when I was in trouble. The guys here call me LaRoux, but you should call me Roux. Like you said, we’re someone to each other now.

  I grew up outside of New Orleans in the bayou, Cajun to the bone until I enlisted and was shipped to North Carolina and then out to Ft. Collins near you. I can’t tell you much about what I do, but I can tell you that I’m in the Special Forces and these days, I’m stationed in Yemen.

  Abby didn’t know much about the military, but she knew that Special Forces meant he was in danger more often than not. She clutched the letter tighter, as though she could keep him safe by sheer force of will.

  I can also tell you that I’ve spent more time in Germany than any good Cajun should. Just writing that sentence makes me desperate for gumbo. Real bayou gumbo. And coffee the way it’s meant to be. And crawfish.

  You make me hungry, cher.

  That one sentence, five words, and he had her. Maybe it was the casual French endearment, but if she was honest, it was the rest of it. The part where she made him hungry. The power that came with it. And the part where she suddenly felt incredibly hungry herself. What was happening to her?

  Let’s get a few things out of the way:

  1) I don’t have a wife. Not at Ft. Collins or anywhere else. It’s just me.

  Relief flooded through her, more than it should. It shouldn’t matter if he was married, should it? So why did it seem to matter so much? It didn’t. He was a soldier stationed half a world away, and they’d exchanged one letter.

  2) You apologized twice in your letter. Never apologize for anything again. Not to me. And definitely not for being you.

  She didn’t remember the words, but there, in that command, in that insistence that she be herself without remorse, Abby fell for Theodore LaRoux, hard and fast, and enough that she knew everything in her life would now be aligned to this moment—before and after Roux.

  3) Tell me more about the dog
and cat. And next time you talk to her, tell your mother I’m not scared in the slightest.

  Abby shivered at the words, rereading them until she lost count of how many times. Was he flirting with her? More than that, the command came with an insistence that she write again. Was she supposed to flirt back? Could she flirt back? She’d never flirted in her life. She’d never imagined anyone would ever want her to flirt. She didn’t even know how one began to flirt back.

  She could figure it out, though. It was just letters. She could flirt. They didn’t know each other. They’d never meet.

  It would be fun, and then it would be over.

  4) You promised me secrets, Abigail Trent. Pay up.

  Uh-oh.

  Abby knew instinctively that telling him secrets would make it impossible for her to keep her distance, no matter how far away he was. She looked up at Darcy, who’d finished his dinner and was now waiting for permission to climb up on the couch with her. “This might have been a mistake,” she said once the dog settled down, his head on her ample thigh.