BASIC TRAINING — CHAPTER ONE
WARNINGS — age gap tension (reader 19-20, Rafe 24), military hierarchy power imbalance, male gaze/possessive thoughts, internalized misogyny, explicit objectification, obsession, voyeurism, pervy male POV, past casual sex (implied), predator/prey dynamic, male masterbation
You’re the last one off the van. That’s the first thing Rafe notices — and it sticks.
Everyone else spills out fast, loud, sunburnt. Military kids, seasoned family, spouses with babies already on their hips. But you?
You climb down slowly. Both hands on the strap of your pink bag like you’re worried it’ll slip away from you. You look around like everything is unfamiliar. Unsteady.
You’re not in uniform. You’re in a pressed blouse and ballet flats, legs bare beneath a soft little skirt. Your water bottle is clear and full of pastel-colored fruit. You’re chewing pink gum. Your lip gloss catches the sun.
And Rafe’s dick twitches.
He should look away. He knows that. He should walk the other direction, mind his business, keep his hands clean.
Because you don’t belong here. Not in a place like this. Not on a base like this.
And sure as hell not near someone like him.
“Who’s that?” he asks without taking off his sunglasses.
His buddy glances up from the truck bed. “That’s the Captain’s daughter.”
Rafe doesn’t move.
His jaw tightens. His arms are crossed over his chest, forearms thick with sweat-slick muscle, dog tags clinking against his skin. But his eyes stay glued to you. Watching. Tracking.
“Looks like she’s never even been off a damn sidewalk,” his buddy mutters with a chuckle. “She probably cries if she breaks a nail.”
Rafe doesn’t laugh. He barely even smirks. He just keeps staring.
“You think she’s ever been kissed?” he asks finally. The question is low, quiet. Serious.
This time his buddy laughs for real. “Jesus, man.”
But Rafe isn’t joking.
You don’t look like someone who’s been kissed. You look like someone who still gets tucked in. You’re trailing behind your father now, hugging your arms, blinking up at the sun like it personally offended you. You look lost. Soft.
Exactly the kind of thing Rafe likes.
But unlike the other girls — the ones who begged to ride him before he’d even zipped his pants — you don’t look like you’d know what to do with him.
He’s not used to girls like that. Not anymore.
Most of the women around here come to him already seasoned — lonely wives, bored daughters, ex-soldiers-turned-waitresses who’d rather suck off a grunt in a back alley than go home to their boyfriends. He’s used to fast, nasty, no strings. He has a box under his bunk full of phone numbers on receipts, bar napkins, lip prints.
He hasn’t learned a single one of their names.
But you?
You're new.
You're untouched.
And Rafe Cameron has always had a problem with temptation.
You’ve got a little notebook in your arms now, hugging it like it’s precious. You nod along to whatever your father is saying. You’re not listening — Rafe can tell — but you’re smiling anyway.
He watches your mouth move.
Watches your hands fidget with the hem of your skirt.
Watches your legs press together when a truck passes too fast and kicks up dust.
And all he can think about is how fast he could break you.
You wouldn’t even see it coming.
That’s the sickest part. You’re so used to being safe. Being supervised. Being sheltered. You’d think you were in control the whole time — until his hand was around your throat and you were coming so hard you couldn’t breathe.
He bets you still sleep with the door cracked.
He bets you say “gosh” and “oh my gosh” and chew on the ends of your pens.
He bets you’ve never had a guy pull your panties down and say, “you’re mine now, baby. say thank you.”
You’ll learn.
Later, when the sun’s setting and you’re sitting cross-legged on the porch with a lemonade and your pink notebook open on your lap, Rafe walks by with a cigarette between his teeth.
You don’t even look at him. Just scribble something in loopy cursive, your legs swinging where they hang off the step. You’ve got some song playing in your earbuds, too loud and sugary. The sound of a girl who’s never done anything wrong in her life.
Rafe watches your reflection in a window for a long time after he passes.
He doesn’t even smoke. He just needed a reason to linger.
Back in the barracks that night, he’s wide awake.
His room is silent. Fan spinning slow above him, boots tossed to the floor, sweat still drying on his back.
His hand is wrapped around his cock, but it’s not about the release.
It’s the control. The ownership.
He thinks about you saying his name — sweet, unsure, a little breathy. He imagines how you’d gasp when he grabs your face. He imagines the pink gloss smeared across your cheek.
He doesn’t even touch himself most of the time.
He just lets the ache burn a hole in his gut.
Because he knows he can have you.
He just hasn’t decided when.