

This book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the authors' imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, is entirely coincidental.

This book both in its entirety and in potions is the sole property of

Copyright © November 11, 2011 by Talon P.S.

~ 2017 SMASHWORDS EDITION ~

ASIN: B0067YA71A ~ ISBN: 9781466032262

All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to an online book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without permission from TPS Publishing or the Twins: Talon P.S. &/or Tarian P.S. Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author's rights and livelihood is appreciated.

Editing: Kimber Kahn and Tarian P.S.

Cover Art: TPS Publishing

Formatting and Conversion: TPS Publishing

War-time Romance / Drama / Men's Romance / Adult Language

A mysterious love letter with no name and no return address shows up in a soldier's hands looking for her lost Beloved Soldier. Unable to find him, she reaches out to a soldier who perhaps no longer feels the reach of his own woman, hoping to touch someone that will in turn bring back her lost beloved.

Army Specialist Christian Brice was the first to receive the letter. Coming only a month after his fiancé had sent him a Dear John. So moved and touched, he writes her back, but unable to send it directly he shares both the letter and his correspondence with others like him, and thus begins the journey of a woman's heartfelt words across a war torn area to deliver a sweet kiss to those who need to feel it.

Word spreads of the Beloved Woman and so does the number of correspondences, some of passion and appreciation, others sharing a far more open and sensual fantasy with her, each one added to the bundle that carries her from one soldier to the next, until she lands in the hands of Airforce Senior Airman Miles Conley who comes across the man it was intended for.

5-STARS ~ "This is a quick read book, but I thoroughly enjoyed it. The letters from the soldiers to the "beloved woman" were anywhere from loving to erotic. I could not imagine what a soldier feels like in war time, but this story makes me want to become a penpal to anyone of these men!!" ~ L. Wood

To all the soldiers who have fought to protect others. Because even when you don't know it, there is someone who is waiting for you to come back home.

And to those left behind, that stuck with them.

We would also like to make a special dedication to my neighbor, though he may never know I did this. His inventions of the specialized vehicles, now known as the MRAPS and the Breacher, have saved so many lives in a time of war and fighting. For that, I salute him respectfully, because while a few of my friends never made it back. Many of them did—

Special Thanks to Kimber Kahn for her time and skill as a grammar nazi for making

Dear Soldier, With Love a dyslexia-disaster free zone.

Warning

This e-book contains sexually suggestive scenes and adult language which may be considered offensive to some readers. This book is intended for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

This book contains homoerotic M/M romantic content, graphic language and situations that some readers may find objectionable (explicit language, homoerotic suggestions, violence, graphic details of wounded conditions and of course soldiers being soldiers).

TABLE OF CONTENT

DEDICATION

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

BONUS READ

Christian gripped the letter in his hand for a long silent moment. The pain he felt since Sandra's last letter still weighed heavily in his heart. They were supposed to be married and then he got called out to the war. He knew it wasn't going to be easy on her, waiting, wondering from day to day if he was safe— alive— holed up in some dismal, ruined shelter or meat chunks served up on scrap metal at the last check point. But, she should have known whatever pain she was going through— hell was far worse for him.

He remembered their last night together, how hard it was just to have the night to themselves. The families and friends had gathered, everyone wanting to be with him— hang out— wanting to be close just one last time. There was nothing but, bad news reaching home from this place. And Christian Brice, the ' _good boy_ ' from Tampa, was called up on the second wave of deployments to head out, right in the middle of it. He practically brought his momma to tears when he begged her to go home. He wanted his last night alone in Sandra's arms, not listening to his mother's wailing baby stories. Not that he didn't love his momma, but he'd left that nest a long time ago and he could see the hurt in Sandra's eyes, needing to be the center of his attention, one last time. _If only he had known it was really going to be their last._

Alone and in his arms, he kissed her tears and made love to her, making sure she came more than once by his touch before he let himself have his first release. _God, how he remembered it_. So intense, after holding it back for so long. But, even better when she cried out his name as her body shook violently underneath his weight and she blushed afterwards. She'd never had an orgasm so hard, so brightly intense before, and he knew that for certain. He'd been her first and every one until that last night.

She knew when they dated in high school he had big plans of going into the Army. She also knew the night when she said yes to marry him, he was going to stay in it. She just never expected a war to break out over night. But then, who did? The covert ops that snuck out during the middle of the night had been a hush-hush operation. Now, the whole world knew.

_That_ was two years and _too_ long ago. His Sandra broke under the pressure and sent him his Dear John letter just a month ago.

As an E-4 Corporal in the Army, now he had to stay focused despite that pain weighing on him? That he had to somehow stay alive? For what? To go home to an empty place in his bed?

A tear streamed down his cheek, taking with it five days worth of sand and playa. He dropped his head wanting to hide, but the pain was too fresh— too raw— there was no hiding it and he was too rode weary to try. He dropped his head back against his pack instead, starring up at the crumbing roof over their heads. Fuck it; he didn't care if the guys said anything about it. He wasn't the only one to get a Dear John in the past few months. His fist blindly still gripping the unopened letter he'd gotten just five days ago.

It had been an unwelcome shock, like a Bowing knife shoved straight into his chest with an added twist, when the Lieutenant at the last station called him over to pick up the envelope with his name written on it. There was no return address, but the handwriting on the front was neat and as lovely as any woman's could be and the envelope spritzed with some perfume smelled all the sweeter.

His heart, his mind, it hurt too much to read anything from Sandra. Was she writing to say she was sorry? To say she was hurting and said the wrong thing and wished she could take it all back? No, if anything she wrote to tell him not to take it personal, it was just something she had to do and she never meant for any of this to hurt him. That's probably what it said. _Don_ ' _t take it personal_.

He took the letter from the Lieutenant and stuffed it in his pack and walked off like he was some dark cloud brooding about the camp. He was just glad they were heading out; he didn't have time to read the letter just then. And there was no reading or being off task when you're in charge of operating the high-tech SPARK vehicles with the task of clearing the roads and fields from hidden mines; so the troops coming in behind you can make their destination safely.

It was a risky position, but he wouldn't give it up for any other task over here. None of the men in his unit would. They saved lives, the lives of their fellow soldier— and saved them every day. There was a lot to be said in that. It honored that this was his duty in the United States Military.

However, even as his SPARK unit rolled down the sand carved road, creeping along at all of 5 miles an hour, he often found himself glancing down at the pack at his feet, at the corner of the envelop peeking out the front pocket.

_What if it wasn't from Sandra at all_? His name, hand written on the front didn't look the same as it did on all the others Sandra had sent. But who then?

One of the small red lights on his sensors dash blipped. The letter would have to wait some more.

"All stop," He almost whispered it to Sergeant, who was driving the vehicle next to him on his left. "Hey Tom, you got a frequency signal for me?" Christian directed the question to his head set, to the man in Unit two of their team.

Tom was like a set of rabbit ears. He listened and watched about a dozen screens looking for the faintest of radio waves, electrical currents and radiation activity. Any number of the energy signals often given off by explosive devises. Why Tom there could hear the tick of a wind up clock buried six feet deep. His flaw was he stuttered.

"S-s- signal remote."

"Copy that. Hold back, she might be deeper than the others have been."

"What's the pressure on your sweepers?" Tyron, who sat behind him to his right monitoring the side sensors that covered the shoulder to the right of them, requested a read out.

Luc sat behind on his left, mirrored that of Tyron.

Christian glanced at his pressure gauge "We musta hit a dip. I only got a hundred and ten pounds on my sweepers." He flipped a few switches overhead then using a joystick on the overhead dash. He manually shifted the tilt and weight on the roll wheels mounted on the front of the heavily modified Humvee that rode more like a tank with extras, for the purpose of pre-detonating them before the vehicle came over them.

"S- s-signal j-just s- s-spiked," Tom called up on the comms.

"Copy that, but I don't have a detonation yet."

"Whadda ya need, Christian?" Darin, who sat to his right behind the wheel, glanced over at him, waiting for his decision before they rolled forward any further. There was no distinguishing who was in charge in their team; Sergeant Darin Combs was the point man, but he didn't make a move without confirmations from those reading the instruments. Two years, he never lost a man. That is until Kyle made the fatal mistake of stepping out of his unit before drawing back inside the swept field.

Christian shook his head taking some thought before answering, "Let's roll forward some, I may just have the lip. The weight would be enough for it to register, but not enough to set it off."

Darin tapped his head set, "Tom, how big is that spike?"

"C- cl- claymore s-s-size, ap-approximate fifty pounds TnT, s-sir."

"Alright, here we go, moving forward." Darin throttled the vehicle forward at a slow creep. They heard a couple of ticking sounds— two, three— like twigs snapping all at once, then the vehicle's front carriage rattled with at the explosive sound of the mortar pop.

"Good call, let's keep moving. We got another fifteen miles to cover before we break." Darin throttled it up to roll all of a micron faster than the slowest tortoise on earth and the four men watched and they listened for their next pop.

And that was how Christian's morning went the day the letter arrived, with much of the same for five whole days— until now, with still another hundred miles before they'd cleared the last of the supply road to the next point station, so the Army could bring supplies and more armament for the front lines. _Five days_ — he had stared at that envelope stuffed in his pack. Now, he would finally open the letter and see who had written him and why.

He would have said he was numb while he read the letter, but there was no way to not be affected by this. He ached and hurt— but it was a good pain.

Christian brought the letter to his nose and took a long deep breath. He had no idea what the name of the woman's perfume was, but he loved the sweetness of it, like jasmine and oranges, and the sweet musk of a woman. He took another deep breath ordering his brain to forever remember that smell so if ever he passed a woman that smelled like that— he would kiss her and love her right there on the spot. Such a woman deserved to be swept off her feet, adored, and tendered and made love to, with the same care and passion he had tried to give his Sandra.

Another tear streamed down his cheek and he kissed the letter, as if doing so, the woman who wrote it would feel him. Feel his breaking heart and know how deeply she had touched someone and lifted some bit of pain from him. She gave him the words he had expected to hear from his Sandra until the time came he would finally go home.

Luc Selzner, a Private First Class like most of them, had just finished cleaning out the sand from his desert eagle 9-mil for the fourth time this week. His foot tapping to a music beat only he heard, some made up rhythm in his head to combat the ringing in his ears after days of disarming and detonating mortars, and the never ending threat of homemade roadside bombs.

Luc shook his head, more at himself than anything else around him, not that he would ever admit it out loud, but his general— _I know better than the army general's do_ — attitude tended to cause more trouble than-not for him. Being the dumb ass he was, he wasn't about to put some damned rubber on his gun. Now, he was paying the price. Out in the middle of dumb-fucked-someplace not in Egypt— with not a convenience store for at least five or so countries then left for another _oh,_ _thousand miles_ , give or take a few thou more. Where was a dude supposed to get his rubbers from around here? Now, he couldn't change his mind over the stubborn ass idea that a real man doesn't wear rubbers. His nine was just another reflection of his cock; if his cock didn't wear rain gear then neither did his nine. Right? _Fuckin' dumbass_. _Next war, I'm putting my rubber on my dick and getting laid before I sign up_. And then yes, he'd use the rest of the box to guard his gun from the onslaught of sand and dust. And then maybe, he wouldn't be sitting here cleaning layers of playa out of the stock slide of his guns. Shit was damned impossible to get out, too.

But, it beat reading his last letter from Rhonda, again. He should just burn that damned thing.

He glanced up, his eyes skirting the room of the abandoned building they were sheltering in to escape the afternoon sun and then glanced out the window, which was really just a hole blown through the wall, to the landscape outside. Just habit really, never get so down with your space you don't watch out for your ass. But, he had to take a double take when his brain thumped him in the back of his skull that something in the scheme of things was off. He looked again; Christian had streaks down his face and was kissing the letter in his hand.

"Hey Chris, you hear back from Sandra? Dude, I told she'd come around." Just thinking about it was painful. Rhonda had done the same thing to him, wrote back begging for forgiveness. Only to get a letter from Tony, his brother, that she was sportin' a new baby bump. He nearly choked at the news, shoulda' used that rubber. He shook his head again. _More trouble than you're worth ol' Luc boy_. It'd taken a moment but then he did the math. He wrote a Dear Jane letter of his own, something along the lines of— get fucked beeyoch! Then it occurred to him she'd already gone and done that, so he burned the letter and ignored hers.

"No!" Christian snapped then shook his head as if regretting doing so. "It's not from Sandra."

"Dude, don't tell me you just got more bad news from home, your family?"

Christian shook his head again, then managed a painful smile, "It's nothing like that." But his hand still held the letter in a tight grip, its edges crumpling from the pressure.

"Sooo— what's with the water works, dude?" Luc slid his hand gun back into his holster in his belt, then pulled his recon rifle around to do the same to it.

"You get a Dear John yet?" Christian tilted his head in his direction, looking at him from under heavy lids rimmed with clumped, damp lashes.

"Now, why you got to bring that shit up, huh? Not bad enough you're still mourning, you got to make the rest of us relive the shit with you?"

"No, just that if you did, you get to read this. Just give it back when you're done, I want to send it to Kyle. He should be the next to get it."

"Get what?" Luc tossed his hands up, "You're not making any sense, dude. Either the sun has gotten to you or your far more pussy whipped then you want to admit."

"Here." Christian held the letter out for him, "Just F'ing—" his tight tone died off and he took a deep breath letting it out in a long streaming sigh of tolerance. Something he rarely had these days. "Just read it." He nodded his head as if giving permission to something intimately private in his world.

Luc pushed up to his feet and went over taking the letter from his buddy. He looked at the several pages of heavy parchment stationary, glancing at the handwriting. It was the cursive, script stuff, but not too fancy that a guy, like him, couldn't figure out what the hell all those pretty words were. A scent caught his nose, making his nose twitch, and he brought the letter up to sniff at it. A smile crept over his face and he took a deeper inhale, closing his eyes and let it go to his head. "Oh yeah," He murmured.

"Just read it, Luc. Don't masturbate to it. You'll ruin the fragrance."

"What? You don't like the smell of my spunk?"

"Fag." One of the other guys grumbled from their resting spot.

"Hey, don't ask don't tell. Can I help it, if I like jackin' off every once in a while?" Luc rolled his shoulder, "It helps take the edge off." He shot the guys a smart-ass grin.

Luc dropped back down on the ground, he leaned against the ruined brickwork of the wall next to his pack, and started reading the letter. His kiss-my-ass-smile fell away almost instantly.

Christian watched Luc's eyes dart from one side of the page to the other, over and over again and still it was several long minutes that passed, and Christian was growing impatient. Damned, if those New York boys read slow. Just when he was about to bitch about it, Luc's face collapsed in the hand holding the letter, pressing it to his forehead. He could hear the mumbled curse, but wasn't sure which one he used. Luc was a fan of them all whether they fit or not.

"Well?" Christian asked, when Luc hadn't said anything else for an even longer moment.

Luc's head popped up. "You got some paper?"

"What?"

"You heard me, give me some damn paper."

"What the hell for?"

"Cause I wanna write her back."

"There's no return address." Christian held up the envelope, flipping it over several times to show the proof of his claim. It'd be like Luc to accuse him of withholding that kind of info.

"Then I write it and I'll put it with hers when you send it out to Kyle."

Christian scratched at his head a moment then flattened his fingers and ran them back and forth several times against the short stubble of his buzzed head. He'd tell Luc he was an idiot. like he always did when Luc would get an idea; but truth be known, he'd been think of doing the very same thing.

He flipped one of the flaps on his gear bag open and pulled out the ziplock bag that held his notebook in it. _Helped keep the paper dry_. He tore out a sheet and passed it over.

"You know you should show it to the CSM at the next point before you mail it to Kyle in the MASH. The Commander's wife passed away from the cancer before he could get home to her."

"Luc, it was meant for guys who got Dear Johns," Christian suggested the rebuttal.

"Dude—" Luc tossed his hands up, "Commander don't get no letter from his woman no more— it works for him too." He snatched the piece of paper from Christian then kicked a cloud of sand his way. "Just fuckin show it to him."

"Fine." Christian shook his head, "I'll show it to him." And he pulled out another piece of paper for himself and started writing a return of his own.

Private First Class Billy Azner was sitting in the corner listening to all the back and forth until finally his curiosity got the better of him, "What woman?" That was really all he needed to hear, all the crap before that didn't interest him none at all. Least of all, when it pertained to Christian.

"Here, you should read it man. You might learn something." Luc held it out to Tyron at his right to pass it over.

"Don't do it, Luc," Christian warned. Luc ignored him, Christian and Billy never got along, just something about those two, they always managed to rub each other the wrong way.

Billy read it or maybe he just skimmed over it, because next he was rubbing on his dick through his pants, making crude remarks. He finally let out a snide huff and passed it back to Tyron, "Bitch needs to go out and get laid or something."

"You know, you're a fucking asshole, Billy. If I weren't already on conduct warning, I'd knock your teeth out." Christian gritted, just hoping Billy'd have the balls to start the fight for once, 'stead of just running his flapper.

"N-n- now y-you got him c-cussin', B-Billy," Tom spoke up for the first time. He usually stayed out of it, but he couldn't help point it out when Christian started cussing, because the only time he did was when Billy got him wound up.

"Suck my dick pretty boy." Billy blew a kiss in Christian's direction, careful to ignore Tom while attempting to goad Christian on. If Christian started another fight with him, he was going to lock down in the MP yard for thirty days and that suited Billy just fine.

Christian shot Billy a sneering glance. "I don't do Texas trash, but if you wanna fight for it, I'll let you suck mine after I kick your ass all over this place."

"You'd like that wouldn't you?" Billy practically mirrored the expression.

Tyron shook his head shooting Billy a sneer. "Hey, don't ask, don't tell, remember?" The out dated phrase was used commonly among them as a reminder to dial it down, before they got in trouble. Rather than have any true direction of anyone's sexual preference.

"I oughta kick your ass for all that hate crime shit you're always spreadin', right along with the rest of the shit that comes from your mouth." Christian was kicking into the sand. He hated the prejudices Billy used for constant insults.

"Put up or shut, Chrissy boy. You ain't the halo you think you are," Billy goaded him once again, but wasn't getting up for the face off either.

"Oh, I have no problems taking you on." Christian was ready, he was always ready.

"Man, don't go there." Tyron shot another glance towards Billy, then shook his head before turning to Christian "Don't waste your breath on this motherfucker. He's just trying to get you in lock up."

Billy had enough of Christian and ignored him. It was bad enough Christian was always ready to call him out for a fight, another for the rest to take the cheap shots too. "Hey, why don't you fuck off, Tyron?" Billy bit out at him. He really didn't care one way or another when it came to Tyron. But he didn't like Christian, didn't like how he'd go on about being a volunteer for some beach cleanup organization as if Tampa beaches were better than the ones in his home town of Corpus Christi or that _he_ was better. But as much as he disliked Christian, he liked the man's left hook even less.

"Cracker, you need to just shut your mouth." Tyron was rocking up to his feet. He'd had about enough of Billy himself, always trying to get Christian worked up to take a shot at him. But hell, while Christian might be on probation, he wasn't, and it was no sweat off his back to throw a few punches Billy's way, to knock him off his soap box.

Billy let out several quick protests while the others sent some ' _whoa nows_ ' towards Tyron. They all knew once he was up, there was no stopping him.

Specialist Jake O'Donnel, who'd been sitting quietly next to him the whole time, grabbed Tyron's fatigues and held tight, just enough to exert a reminder to his friend to keep a grip, before they all got in trouble. They were a small team; there was no sense in them acting out like a bottle of fizzy soda, ready to blow its top. Besides, beer's better, and if they got in anymore trouble, the Commander wasn't going to let them have free time in the cantina at the next check point station. _That meant no beer_.

While Jake was all about the next beer, he didn't take Tyron's threats lightly. Tyron came from some badass neighborhood on the Atlanta hood, and somebody from above musta liked his ass, cuz they stepped in his way and gave him a choice— be a badass on the streets and die a punk, or be a badass in the Army and die a hero, or maybe— just maybe, live to have a real life with some real respect. Two days after Tyron was shipped out for the war zone, a drive by shooting took out his older brother and four others of the gang Tyron hung with.

Private First Class Tyron Washington was one of the badest motherfuckers in their unit. If he was afraid of something they'd never seen it in him and long as you were on his good side he also made one hell of a friend, who always had your back.

Yet, so did Billy, if the stakes were there.

Suddenly, the lump of a body in the far corner rose up like some pile of dirty laundry that manifested into their lead point man, Sergeant Darin Combs, bellowing out instantly as if they'd rose him up from the dead, "Hey! Knock it the fuck off, all of ya'z! Now we've been out for five days and we're all starting to get edgy, not to mention smell. But, I'll be damned if I'm gonna have some insurgent running up on us like he's doing the cha-cha and we don't notice cuz none of ya'z can put a lid on it!" Darin glanced around, delivering an equal glare of his grey eyes to each and every one of them. A look that even put Tyron lowering back down. Then the sergeant turned to Christian, "Now, since you got us all going on over this letter, why don't you just read it out loud, so all of us can hear it."

"Ty has it." Feeling a little timid under Darin's big bro act. Darin just had that kind of effect on them. He was tall as fuck and, while you wouldn't know from looking at him, he packed some damn muscles in those arms that could put most guys out with one punch, and they'd all seen him do it more than once.

Darin glanced at Tyron; his brow went up asking without having to ask. Tyron just shook his head; he shrugged and passed the letter back to Christian, "I don't wanna read it. I don't care. I got's me a girl."

Christian rocked up to his knees, reached for the letter, then fell back against his pack with the letter in hand. He took a moment straightening the pages out, then took a deep breath as if searching for some resolve and began to read the letter aloud.

Dear Soldier,

I am writing you as a woman, in one last desperate attempt to feel my soldier's arms— his kiss— his heart. Even if it must come from a soldier whose woman's strength has wavered, leaving him to endure the feelings of being left behind, just as I struggle for the loss of my Beloved Soldier.

How my heart had hurt with a desperate goodbye as I watched my beloved soldier head for war with a kiss, a tear and an un-keepable promise to come back. And from the very moment my beloved soldier's lips left mine, I have yearned and waited to feel them return. When that blissful and painful relief is felt in the deep pliant return of his lips crushed against my own.

Moments became days— days became weeks and weeks have turned to months and still I have not seen my beloved soldier's words return to wrap me in his strong loving arms, to deliver his love notes and the sound of his safe keeping, written on pieces of paper that I can hold to my breast as if he were with me this moment.

And still yet I wait and seek the return of my beloved soldier.

Words become fingers as I reach across great distances to seek out and touch him, wherever he may be, so he would know without a doubt his beloved woman still waits for him to return and complete the kiss he promised. I wait as I promised— waiting to taste my beloved soldier's lips again.

Another night goes by and still no words or fingers to let me know if you're safe, looking up at the same moon as your beloved woman, or do you look down at me from some other place? Will I never feel the warmth of your hand on my breast or your breath against my neck as you whisper your passionate desires in my ear? Will I never feel the weight of your body pressed over mine or hear the ragged breath tear from your lungs as you exalt another trembling whimper from my lips, and pleasure is shared to reignite what we had shared that last fateful night before that last kiss? When you kissed the tears from my cheek and told me how beautiful your beloved woman was.

When you close your eyes, do you remember what my red lips felt like on yours? Do you savor the memory of a scent that could only be infused by our two bodies when we shared our love together? Life has been fairer to me in your absence, for I have your pillow that still smells of your hair and musk, and the jacket that smells of your cologne. Each night, I hold them to my breast just dreaming, wishing they were you and not the memory. After I cry myself to sleep without my beloved soldier to kiss those tears away, I dream I can fly across land and sea and touch you when you dream. Do you sleep safely enough so you can dream I am with you? Or is the sun blotted out with the shadows of danger where you are, preventing you from receiving me in your dreams?

Has the sand swept away the last fragrance of shampoo from the lock of hair I tucked in your pocket before you left?

Where are you my beloved soldier? Have you lost your way? Did you fear that my letter would not come, like so many others whose names have been changed to John by no fault of their own, but no lesser the pain? I have written so many words, sent so many touches of my heart your way. I fear there is no path that can reach you, so I write one last letter and send it, not to you, but to all the other beloved soldiers who wait for the words and promises of a kiss that never comes for them. That perhaps if I kiss them— that kiss may travel even further until at last— it will find you and remind you of your promise to come home.

So my dear beloved soldier, where ever I have found you, I send my warm love from a deep heart and I send you a kiss from my sweet lips.

And please believe me when I say that, although I may never get to touch you or see the glimmer in your eyes, or taste the sweetness of your lips, know that I love you.

I love you with all the depth and being, and fiber that makes a woman love her soldier. Know that when I close my eyes, I will forever dream of you, not just returning to my arms, but returning to our unfinished kiss. I will kiss the dark thoughts from your mind, wash the blood and its ghosts away from your skin and hold you as you rest for the first time without the weariness that death may come if you sleep too deeply. I will be there wrapped around you, holding— watching over you as you sleep—and yes, you will dream. And when you awaken and find yourself in your beloved woman's arms, you will make love to her as you had yearned and dreamed to do so since the last kiss that separated us. The promise to return made complete when you taste my sweet tongue tangled with yours— smell my perfume as it seeps into your pores and your mind. The warmth of my soft breast under your hand, the soft moans of my voice as you fill me with a savored dream you kept guarded inside your heart since our last kiss.

Dear Soldier, I send you my kiss with love, and now as the nights grow darker still, know your beloved woman still waits for you for the day you return. Forever waiting for my beloved Soldier to finish our kiss.

With Love,

Your beloved woman.

It was another three days before they made the next point station, leaving behind a clear path for the supply convoy to make its final trek of its journey.

The guys only had one day and one night's rest before they had to head back out on their next orders. And already, word of the love letter from the Beloved Woman, as she became known as, was spreading. Luc's was the first of many correspondents that would join her in her journey to touch soldiers in need of a woman's sweet whispers, until she found her own Beloved Soldier and beckoned him to return home.

Dear Beloved Woman,

I will wait for you in my dreams, and when you arrive, I will give you a kiss that will forever complete my return to you.

I'm lost to the canyon between your thighs. As hands cup around your firm breasts, there's no time to waste. Need has us tied in knots. Your lips find the swell of my cock and the purple flanged head exciting, arousing a deep, unquenchable ache inside your womb.

I deprived myself a moment of your lips to take a taste of you, to find the sweetest cream. Making a trail of wetness down your neck, over your breasts ,and the soft rolls of your belly, through soft curls to that place where I will find that tantalizing cream that awaits my tongue.

My fingers trail along your crescent and sink in deep to seek out and ignite your sensitized spots of delicate skin while your lips paint a red flame on my hard cock, taking me onto your tongue until you've kissed my belly. Together, we begin the climb. Our bodies glistening with the passion's tears, our muscles clenching, shuddering with the searing pulse of release.

This is my sweet dream for you.

With Love,

A beloved Soldier

Command Sergeant Major Donavan Macknie held his head in his hands, propped on the desk for a long moment just letting himself feel. He laughed and cried at the same time. Missing his delicate Trish all the more.

When his wife wrote, telling him her cancer was back, he'd turned in every request he could think of that would send him back state side, but the war was bigger than their forces, there was no getting back. He called home every time a satellite phone was in his grasp; some of his men even volunteered their time to him so he could get an extra call in when they could. But, Trish's health declined so rapidly many of those conversations were with Trish's sister, rather than his wife. He sat alone in his tent, late at night, trying to write love letters he didn't know how to write. Driven to find a way no matter how bad they were, with each one he hoped she knew how much he loved her. He felt so helpless and desperate— so many thousands of miles away, and he couldn't even so much as hold her hand as she slipped away.

Choked laughter crumbled into deep rooted sobs as a shaky hand brought the letter he believed Trish would have written had she had the strength to do so and kissed it, staining the pages with his dust laden tears. He could just imagine his Trish blushing so sheepishly as she attempted to talk naughty for him. It was always fun watching her trying to break out of her modesty just for his own pleasure, and then he'd whisper sweet nothings in her ear, his arms wrapped around her so she couldn't shy away from him. The real joy was watching her as she'd go from pink to crimson in an instant. But, then she would make love to him in such a way that no other woman had ever touched him. _His Trish_. The sobs came again, strangled with laughter as he recalled those beautiful moments.

He set the letter down smoothed it out, then pulled out a sheet of stationary, like the one he used to write to Trish.

Dear Beloved Woman,

Your sweet words have only just arrived and yet they have already touched so many.

I wish, I knew where your beloved soldier was so I could send him home to you before he missed one more precious moment to be in your arms.

Your words have touched me in such a way that I will forever be grateful, as when I read them, I heard my beautiful Trish's voice, so soft and sweet like a song bird.

Do you know how many times I wrote her, trying to put into words how much I love to feel her naked body tremble underneath me as I kiss every inch of her warm flesh with my lips, my hands, my heart? That nothing is more erotic— nothing more delicious as the honey her body spills to quench my hungry thirst for her love. When she moans, it's like a melody only a love sick heart can interpret.

Does your beloved Soldier listen to the symphony of your orgasm knowing they only can be played by the touch of his own fingers?

It's lonely here where I am, under my moon all alone. Made all the lonelier knowing you are out there searching to find your lost beloved soldier and his kiss. I hope you find him again. I hope he does find his way home to you.

Until then, know that I love you in return, my beloved woman. And thank you for helping me feel and touch and hear my beloved Trish one last time.

With Love,

A beloved Soldier

Christian strummed his fingers on his pack trying to manage a little more patience as he waited on Tom. After he'd gotten the Beloved Woman's letter back, along with a correspondence from the CSM, he got hit up by two more guys in the station camp. He shook his head— should have had Tom read it first, and then maybe he'd have his done by the time everyone else had written their correspondences.

Just to move things along, Christian had already gone through the line at the supply tent, geared up his pack and readied for their next move out in the SPARKS to sweep the next mine zone. Their next field was a large airport the marines had taken control over just days ago, now they had to sweep it for bombs, make it safe for use.

When Tom still hadn't finished, he turned around and went back to the tent to resupply Tom's pack, just so he could finish the letter. Now, he was sitting here, still waiting. But, Tom Pratt wasn't like the others, Christian would give him a little more time, and a few more prodding's to hurry him along.

"Come on, Tom, we gotta load up at O-800 and it's already quarter 'til. I still have to hand that over so they can toss it into today's mail bag or it'll be at least another week before another chopper comes by. Now, get a move on." Really he'd already missed the mail drop. That was yesterday, but it was okay, the letters needed to be on the medical chopper heading over to the high dependency care unit at the field hospital. He glanced down at the bundle in his hands. Six envelopes, all addressed the same, save one. The one on top was the original letter. Now addressed to his home buddy, Kyle Whitworths, still at the ICU field hospital for another few days before he would transfer out for rehab then home, for whatever good this was going to make him feel. Kyle's girl certainly wasn't going to be there on the tarmac of MacDill Airforce base, waiting for him to return to Tampa.

Christian strummed through the names once more, gritting his teeth every time he was reminded that one of the envelopes came from Billy, but he didn't dare open and read it. For one, it'd likely turn his stomach and second, he would most definitely rip it to shreds. He pulled one more letter from his pocket, _his letter_. This one he could read, like hers he could read it over and over again and he hoped she would too.

He let out a deep sigh, wishing he knew who the beloved woman was.

Dear Beloved Woman.

I laughed and cried all at once as I read your letter. That such a sweet woman existed in the world. I had once danced the slow dance with a woman I thought was always going to be there, waiting for me. I, too, left her with a kiss and a promise, but now I have no one to give the rest of my kiss to.

Can I send it to you? Will you feel the warmth and the yearning hunger from my lips when you read this just as I have felt your lips like honey coated music on my tongue? How I long to tease your tongue on mine, the soft pliant caress of yours as you kiss back. Our lips fused in a seamless embrace broken only for a need of breath. In the sigh you make, like a whisper in my ear, a caress on my cheek. How my heart will melt when your dreamy deep colored eyes look up at me, filled with tears of fading pain and renewed arousal.

Your undying love undoes me, woman. My heart a melting pot of feelings, I'm afraid to let go, the pain of losing you, too great a cost. I want and need so strongly, my body burns to ravage you, but I promise I will be gentle until you cry out, not withstanding too soft of a touch anymore and need to feel me thrusting my lust and my love deep inside your warm womb. Your arms and legs entangled in mine. And always that kiss never leaving it to sunder, keeping the embrace tenderly hot and broiling until we are drunk off each other.

I wish I knew where you were my beloved woman, had I ever known your name? Will I ever taste your lips on mine as I have tasted them on the paper you sent with your scent? I can smell the fragrant aroma of your release. Feel your shivers of ecstasy in my arms. Will I ever find you, so I can feel that again? And if I did, will I be able to hold you and not crush you in my possession out of fear that if held too tenderly or too softly, I might lose again? Could you bear the weight of such love?

Where ever you are my beloved, know that I too, love you. That I wish for the day when I will come home and you'll be there waiting for me— waiting for my kiss. Until my return please— take care with my heart.

With Love,

Your beloved Soldier

Christian glanced up, checking Tom's progress, folding the letter he'd written and sliding it back into the envelope he'd address to _My Beloved Woman_. He glanced at his watch. Five until. Shit. "Come on, Tom, times up."

"J-j-justa s-second," Specialist, Tom Hagberg stuttered nervously. Christian's mouth grimaced trying again to be patient, only Tom got that from him. At least, he was putting the letter in an envelope now.

"S- so- so w-who do I write it out t-t-to?"

"My Beloved Woman," Christian said affirmatively keeping close convictions of what he felt for the mystery woman who'd picked his name by random and sent her undying kiss to touch his broken heart. He only hoped the other guys along her journey would cherish her and treat her with the same lady-like respect. Tom nodded and carefully wrote the last three words of his response and handed the envelope over to Christian.

Christian took off in a run, the chopper was on the far side of the camp and he could hear the rotors already warming up. He kicked his feet in gear— no way in hell this woman was going to miss her flight.

His feet pounding the sand under him. He could feel his heart beating in his chest. It wasn't pounding with rage for once, it felt good. He felt alive, felt like he could run the 5k like he used to. Some darkness lifted, taking some pain away with it. He cleared the barracks.

"Hey Grey!" Christian called out just as his chopper buddies where sliding the door to the sand-colored UH-72 helicopter closed.

Grey shoved the door back open, his hand reaching out for the parcel from Christian. "Running rather fashionably late. Even for you Christian!" Grey called out over the noise of the blades, already at full prime.

Grey looked at the letters in Christian's hand and glanced at him. "You know this is the AMS Chopper not postal drop?"

"Come on, man I had to give it more time; it was Tom's." He shrugged handing over the tied bundle of letters to him.

"Where's this going?"

"You're heading over to the HDU right?"

"Yeah, gotta pick up the newest shipment of vaccines for the AB bacteria that's been going around— why?"

"That's where Kyle is. See to it, it makes it into his hands will ya? He ships out for England in two days for rehab, so don't be late— like me," Christian called out, keeping his head down low. He wasn't really tall enough to hit the rotors, but at his height of six foot four, your mind tells you otherwise. And everyone subconsciously did it.

Grey gave him a two fingers salute. "You got it, pal." He grabbed the door, pulling on its slider. "See ya at the next camp!" Grey shouted before the door closed shut just as the pilot brought the throttle up.

The motor revved higher and louder, whipping Christian with a vortex of wind and the chopper lost its grip on the ground, hovering and tapped a few times, and then up she went. Taking his Beloved Woman with it.

Grey sat back in his side bucket seat behind the pilot seat, turning the bundle over in his hands several times before pulling the ties loose and leafing through the letters. He'd heard the buzz about the love letter right after they came in yesterday. Now here she was in his hands. He chuckled to himself feeling rather silly that a letter would provoke some response from him at all. He rubbed the envelope in his hands slowly, methodically like he could get a feel for its author without ever having opened it.

He used to write letters to his lover back home, because he remembered finding his mother's shoe box of letters after she passed away. They'd all been letters from his father when he was in active duty. The letters were rarely the kind about the weather or where his father was or what the boys in his platoon were up to. But he did romanticize the days and the nights for her, describing the color of the sunset where he was or how many shooting stars he saw that night. And most always, there were kisses and tender touches to remind his mother what it felt like to be a woman; a woman whose man was off fighting a war for the safety of others. They were sent to remind her that he would one day come home, and he didn't want her to ever forget or seek the warmth of another man's touch in his absence because she could not bear the loneliness without him.

Grey still had those letters, tucked away in the same box his mother kept them, now safely stored at a friend's home until he came for them.

He rubbed at his lip a moment, recalling how he pulled them out and read every one of them over the last few nights before shipping out.

_That was six years ago_.

Chief Warrant Officer V Grey Lawrence was deployed long before the war officially started and when it did he signed up for another term, that's when it became too much for his partner waiting back home. No matter how many times Grey reached across the ocean to tell Daniel how important it was he stay here, there lie the distance, he was _here_ and his lover was some seven-thousand-plus miles over _there_.

Grey pulled on his head set and opened the comm link to Corbin. "So shall we see what your Beloved Woman has written for you today?"

"You shittin' me? You got the letter?" Corbin's deep baritone voice called over the communicator with surprise. They were never around for very long, always on the move, so while they heard about it, any chance of actually getting to see the letter was not even a consideration for them. They figured they'd just have to settle on hearing about it from the others like always.

"Yep."

"Let her rip."

Grey read the love letter over the comm. If his heart hadn't hardened so many years ago he might have cried reading it and yet— he did feel something, some minuscule warmth and simple comfort that _damned_ if it didn't threaten to spread and pump new life into his Grinch of a heart.

"Damn," was about all Corbin could say.

"Wanna write her a letter?"

"Really? Is that what the guys are doing?"

Grey studied the collection of envelopes that had been tied to it. Each one addressed to the Beloved Woman with no address for it to be sent to. Only the name of a soldier with no other info at the top left corner. "Looks that way. She's got eight following her already."

"Really? Let's have a look."

"Who's you wanna hear first?"

"Who you got?"

"Christian— the Commander— Billy—"

"Billy? You got to be shittin' me. Oh hell, call me a glutton for punishment and read me his." Corbin laughed, preparing himself for a doozy. It was no secret to anyone, that boy never did anything tactfully.

Grey opened the envelope and read it out, his face turning red as he did so; luckily it was a short one.

Dear Beloved Woman,

When I get home, I'm going to remove all of your clothes and then I'm going to tie your wrists and your ankles with my belt and my tie.

You can fuss all you want, but it will do you no good. I'm going to throw you over my knee and give you the spanking you deserve, because you've been a very naughty girl. In fact, I'm going to spank you, until you beg me to fuck you.

Tonight my beloved submissive

A naughty Soldier

"Oh lordy, that boy has got some gonads."

"I'm betting he wrote it just to get a reaction out of Christian."

"Yeah I'll buy that. The boy definitely has it in for him. But what I don't get is that Christian let it slide. I'd suspect Christian would have shredded the thing and then shredded Billy. Hell, we should be transporting Billy not letters," Corbin laughed.

"Looks like Christian refrained from reading it."

"Smart lad."

"So you wanna write her? You dictate, I'll write?"

"Naw, but I'm damn feeling a might bit towards writing my wife one. My Norma is a good gal; she's still waiting on me. Course having a gaggle of kids sometimes helps with that I think. Not to mention if she heard I was readin' another woman's love letter, she might just fly over here and smack me good for it."

Grey laughed, "Touchy, is she?"

"Hell, you know she is. And when we get outta here, you're coming home with me. The house is plenty big enough that you can stay awhile, 'til you decide where you wanna go. Course you're always welcome to stay too. We got a great hospital in the area. And those offshore oil rigs always need chopper pilots and emergency medical staff."

Grey kept silent. When Daniel had broken it off with him, he put his home up for sale and said farewell to plans of a future. Leanne, his best friend, took care of everything, safe guarded the few keepsakes he wanted and liquidated the rest. There just wasn't any sense in hanging on to a house he wasn't likely to ever come home to again. After Daniel crushed his heart, Corbin had been after him to come stay with his family in Gulf Shores when they finished their tour. It seemed as good a plan as any, but there was no sense in making promises either. Sometimes it was just easier to say nothing.

At least with Corbin, Grey had no secrets. They had trained together, deployed together and now worked together to save as many boys as they could. Corbin also knew he was gay. Long before the _don't ask-don't tell_ ruling was passed, Grey knew to keep his mouth shut, it just made things easier in the long run. Besides there was no need for him to talk about what he did in the bedroom. His sidekick Chief Warrant Officer IV Corbin Rouass knew and was there as a friend, Corbin also kept his life at home private.

_Don't ask don't tell_ — yep that was their motto. Long before and long after it came and went in the military rulebooks.

Grey glanced at the letter he just finished reading thoughtfully— he reached, out opening up the messenger bag he always kept with him and pulled out a sheet of stationary paper that had remained untouched since the last letter he wrote in response to Daniel's Dear John. He picked up one of the medic clipboards and placed the paper under the clip and just looked at it for a moment— he let out a long soft sigh, feeling as if he had been holding his breath all this time. It actually felt good because, _sometimes, there was a little more that needed to be said_.

Dear Beloved Woman,

Time— so much time has passed since my love wrote his last words for me. And yet, I remember it as if it were yesterday. I remember writing back and for the first time since I had left home. I told my love what kind of darkness surrounded me here. I forgot all the sweet things my father had said to my mother when he was away. I forgot how they got her through all those long and lonely nights. Even when my father never returned home. his letters kept her heart in good keeping, kept her lips warm with the embrace of his. I forgot these things, these things I too had sent home to remind him how much I loved him. How much I cherished his kiss. I forgot these things and delivered the darkness— dumped it at his feet because I wanted him to feel guilty. I told him about the boy who died in my arms yesterday. And I asked my love, how was I supposed to tell these kids as their lives drain out, tipping over the balance, to hang on— don't let go. I held that boy's heart in my hand, pumping it with all the tender love and care I could to keep him alive, but how could I do that? How would I keep his heart beating when mine had been torn from my chest and ceased to feel the moment I read my lover's words that he would wait no more. And as I watched the boy die in my arms, the helplessness I felt as my lover slipped from my life, the life I was in charge to save slipped too.

My Beloved Woman please don't shed tears when I tell you of the dark place I had gone to, it was so long ago and I have held many hearts since then. Watched the blood life flow back into them and I have managed to keep my dead heart away from theirs, saving them if never myself.

Until you— when you promised to wash away the blood and shadows when I returned.

That you would be there to hold me— watch over me as I slept. Just that promise alone gives me the strength to bear the darkness for a little while longer— another distance, another life. Because when it is all over and my journey brings me home, you will be there to take it all away.

I felt the love from your kiss, felt the warmth as it touched me, moved me as you move across great distances in search of your lost beloved. Some strange stirring sparking up, burning away the cobwebs like embers under the ash, whisked into new life by your breath.

It may be some time before I can come home my beloved. Still so many hearts and lives to be saved. Please forgive my absence and know I will forever love you, and tonight, I will dream deeply knowing you will try to reach out for me and we will lie in each other's comfort knowing the kiss I promised will one day be delivered to a lover who waits for me.

With Love,

A Lost Soldier

Kyle sat in his bed, not like he had much of a choice in the matter, fighting the mental fog in his mind, and in his heart. He didn't want to sit up, even after the fifth time the nurse came by. Seeing he had failed to even try on his own, she strapped his ass into that hoist thing and forced his body into a manipulated upright position. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, a habitual thing from being on too much morphine. He could feel the red rims of his eyes, too much pain burned there. The kind drugs didn't do away with.

The high dosage of morphine to kill the physical pain after the doctors had to amputate his mutilated legs, didn't help him none either. Now he had no defenses against the tears that ripped through him.

Kyle had been the driver on the JERRV, another MRAP vehicle class, only it had a boom arm that sent out an electrical current that could trip buried mines. Most JEERVS could carry up to six men but his was outfitted for Tom's frequency readout equipment.

How fucked up does your life have to be that you happen to be the operator on the vehicle that keeps your mine sweeper team safe, only to step out after just such a sweep of the area and step directly on what they called IED's: improvised explosive devices.

He hated for other reasons right now— _fuckin' bitch_. How can you go through life telling someone you'll love them forever and ever, then the moment the chips come down and things are no longer picture perfect— gone? Like a flip of a switch. As if he'd never existed in her heart. Had he ever?

He wasn't tired, but his eyelids felt like two ten pound cannon balls were clipped to them.

He held the letter from the Beloved Woman in his hand and stared at the blank sheet of paper on the bed tray. Been staring at it for two— maybe three hours now. Not sure really. He had a tendency to nod out periodically because of the IV drip drugs. He hated that shit too. What he could go for right now was a cigarette. Or maybe that sweet kiss the woman spoke of.

He'd already read all the correspondences too. Each one different from the next, most of them had had someone and then left out in the cold like himself. And each one had different reactions, but all of them were hurting, feeling the pain. Kyle hated pain, most of all the pain he felt now, shredding through his lungs and his heart, burning against the in-slits of his eyes. He just hated right now.

He stared at the blank paper some more. Hell, he didn't know what to say. That's why he had read all the others thinking maybe he'd know what to say after he'd read theirs. He liked Tom's the best— _good ol' Tom_.

Dear Beloved woman,

When I read your letter today, I was hopelessly falling in love with you. That such a beauty existed in this world and waited for her beloved soldier. Can I tell you how I dream of you and I being together? Can I write the words I would hope to swoon your heart with? Write them like they were poetry for I would falter and trip if I tried to speak them because you take my breath away.

I do not wonder why you are here, for I am a soldier gone off to war and you a woman who waits for a soldier's return. There is no other test of love or test of time more painful and endearing as this. But for the few moments I held your letter in my hands, you were my gal, your words written just for me.

A shiver of every color and sensation shall wrap all around me like party ribbons when I dream of us together, making love under the shade of a large oak, surrounded by the scents of wild flowers and sweet grasses. I will see and feel us inside each other, our souls merging. I simply enjoy the dream, enjoying having you in my arms and I in yours. And I dream of the kiss you beckon to be returned to you.

Until then, I close my eyes and dream of my home coming. During the day, I'll miss you. I'll be falling for you in my heart, wanting to hold you, wanting to believe that you are mine to come home to.

With Love,

A beloved Soldier

Kyle let out a growl, feeling the curl in his lip. He still didn't know what to say to his Beloved Woman, though it pained him that she was home waiting to hear from her beloved soldier, just as he had wished his girl was writing him.

The Beloved was waiting, she'd sent him a kiss; she deserved to hear something from him. Pain and rage were building inside him, he could feel the heat rising, the sweat popping from his pores and trickling down his temples and his back, like rivulets of hatred and anguish, and suddenly he couldn't hold it in any longer.

"I'M SORRY!" he screamed. The words curdling from his throat in a painful racking cry, filled the hospital room, "I don't know what to say!" His fingers fisted into the letter he held and he threw his arms out to his sides in an exalted fury of wrath and madness, unaware he'd torn the very love letter that was holding him together.

Two nurses ran to his side, then a third, but Kyle was a savage emotional wreck and beyond subduing.

"No! I don't want to feel! I don't want the pain!" He was surging up in his bed several times, trying to grab the hoist overhead, for the handle that was placed there for him to assist himself when he wanted to sit up.

"Specialist Whitworths, please! You need to calm down!" One of the nurses tried to reach him mentally to calm him. Ricker, one of the strong arm orderlies, came running in to help out. But, Kyle wasn't listening. One of the nurses ran to the medicine cabinet and came back with a bottle and a syringe. She filled the thumper then injected it into the IV line going to his arm. Within a few moments, Kyle was settling down under Ricker's tense arms, that struggled to keep him contained in his bed, just inches from falling out, then Kyle finally dropped limp.

The nurses got Kyle's unconscious body back into proper place in his bed and fastened a restraint strap across his chest, just in case he started thrashing about again when he came to, to keep him from throwing himself out of bed.

Certain he would be out for awhile; they went back to tending to the others, so they could be ready to help Kyle when he woke later.

Gunnery Sergeant Warren Grazer stepped up after the nurses left. Spotting the torn letter on the floor, he picked up the pieces and looked them over. _A little bit of tape and she'd be good as new_.

Chief Warrant Officer II Hawkeye Pearson was still recovering from a car bomb that had targeted his mobile unit on its way to a nearby airfield to repair a downed chopper. Shrapnel had torn through his left side, leaving some major scars on his body, but nothing he wouldn't survive.

He'd seen Warren with the torn pieces of paper that Kyle had thrown to the floor during his fit. It hadn't been Kyle's first one, wasn't going to be his last either. Nor was he the first to go through it. Most nearly every soldier that came in with missing limbs suffered it. First, there was the grief and pain, then it turned into rage. When they managed to exhaust themselves, rage gave way to depression, and if they were lucky they found a light on the other side.

Only, apparently Kyle wasn't ready to face the light he'd held in his hands. Now Warren had her and was carefully and attentively taping her heart back together as best he could, considering he was missing his right arm up to the elbow.

"Ya getting her all back together?" Hawkeye asked, looking down at the man as he meticulously fitted the sheets of colored paper back to together.

Warren nodded.

"Have you read it yet?"

Again Warren nodded.

"So, what's the deal?"

Warren didn't take his eyes off what he was doing as he answered. "She's looking for her missing soldier. He hasn't written back, so she wrote all the soldiers who don't have a woman writing them."

"That's fucked up."

"Not if you read it, you wouldn't say that."

"So are ya?"

"Am I what?" He finally looked up at Hawkeye with a shifty glance.

Hawkeye dropped his head in a tilt and raised a brow, "Gonna let me read it?"

Warren shrugged, "It's not my decision. She goes to whoever needs her, whether I pass her over to the next man who happened to be hurting from a Dear John letter or has asked of her arrival."

Hawkeye turned and stepped away without another word. He was actually two for two, but he wasn't feeling like talking about that. Not that he thought Warren would ask, Warren wasn't a talkative man at all, but he didn't want to risk it.

Warren's eyes peeked out from the strands of hair that had begun to grow out and into his face, watching as Hawkeye returned to his bunk, snatched a towel and headed out. Most likely heading for the exercise room.

Warren blew one of the wavy strands from his eyes, he was heading home soon, there was no need to keep it short anymore. He grimaced some, if only limbs grew back like hair did.

He pulled another long stream of scotch tape and carefully rolled it into place with his fingers while what was left of his elbow joint held the stationary in place. His gaze drifting across the room just as Hawkeye disappeared into the corridor. _That man_ had a story. You could read it all over his face and it had nothing to do with the banter he got for his name.

He and Hawkeye came from the same battalion, but Hawkeye was part of the Blackhawk regiment as one of their mechanics. Wherever the birds went, he went with. Warren had heard he was good and could patch up a hurting in no time flat. If he hadn't already had a tell tale name everyone would likely of started calling him _MacGyver_ , but the _Blackhawk surgeon_ seemed to fit better. Nevertheless, that was about all Warren really knew of Hawkeye, knowing him only in passing. There were about 500 men in their battalion and Warren was usually the weapons and communications op in an ABV, Assault Breacher Vehicle, which meant their paths rarely crossed.

Their battalion moved about frequently and sent squads out so often there wasn't time to have SPARK teams come in and sweep ahead of them. So the battalion, armed to the gills with its own MRAPs and other support vehicles, led the regiment's standard operations.

The war here was unlike any previous war that the U.S. was involved in. Instead of fighting with guns, canons and air raid targets, the enemy littered the landscape with homemade mines. And the IED's were taking out men and machine at a horrific rate.

Warren was among the men who operated the ABV's, the Marine Corps answer to the perennial problem of offensive warfare. A cross between a tank and a bull dozer, they were able to plow through roads and fields at a rate of 8 miles per hour and could clear paths wide enough for tanks and Stryker assault vehicles and the troops to pass through safely. Operating one was simple enough, two men: one driver and an operator for the vehicle's weapons and communication systems.

The day Warren took a hit; they were running two and two clearing out some road and field section in a district with heavy intel for insurgent control when they got ambushed by a group of bandits. His team had gotten ahead of the others, so Warren had gone up to man the 50cal. They hadn't come to a complete stop yet, there wasn't time. It was just then the other Breacher hit a mine and shrapnel flew out and severed his arm.

Hawkeye sat at the bench press, pushing up the weight bar and began his afternoon regimen to build his strength back up. The sooner he got back to the battalion the better. He needed to be elbows deep in grease, battle weary vehicles and pilots calling out commands for repairs while taking on enemy fire at the same time. That's what he needed, the world spinning around his head, making demands and leaving no room for thoughts. Because right now, he didn't like what was in his head.

He'd gotten super lucky six months ago and managed a furlough home. With the amount of days it took to travel to and from, what was left wasn't but a few days to spend at the house, but he wasn't complaining either. He hadn't heard from Stef in a while, so he knew it'd be good for the two of them to have some touch time and some damn good sex, stopping only long enough to order up some take-out.

He hadn't gotten been able to get a call through to let her know he was coming home for six days; and she didn't pick up when he called from the airport. He knew it wasn't good the second the cab dropped him off in front of his house, finding the red Chevy truck in the driveway. He fished out his side arm and dropped his duffle bag right there. No need for it, when he didn't need to stay long, to say what he had to say.

_Key still fit_.

He walked in; it was all still his stuff. Only now, there was a six pack of empties on his coffee table and a pile of laundry on the love seat, looking as though most of it belonging to Mr. Chevy.

The house was quiet; Stef never was an early riser, not even for some morning nooky— one of his favorites. _I mean why waste a perfectly good morning wood. Right_?

He eased down the hall and walked right into the bedroom with the sleeping couple.

There was a stack of boxes in the corner next to the closet, he wondered for all of a second if the boxes had his things or Mr. Chevy's in them. _It wouldn't matter in a few_.

He stepped up to the bed and pressed his Berretta M9 against the man's temple. "You got all of five seconds to get you and her out of my house."

The man jumped nearly hitting the ceiling. He stumbled back falling then flipping over the bed to the other side, waking Stef in the process.

"Hawk?!" Stef shrieked, jumping out of the bed, dragging the sheet covers with her. "What are you doing here?"

"What the fuck! Dude, you better get out before I call the police," Mr. Chevy threatened, looking more nervous than adamant about defending what he thought was his now.

Hawkeye shook his head slowly, _the nerve of some people_. He aimed the gun and fired, putting a hole right in the middle of the water bed.

After the first initial scream from Stef, she was instantly yelling at him. "Are you crazy?!"

"Not nearly as crazy as you! Thinking you would stay in my house, with my things, live off my dollar, and have the balls to bring another man in!" He aimed again, putting two bullets into the television, than stomped out, putting several bullets in the 65inch plasma screen. And the Xbox— _that wasn't his_. Then headed out the side door to the detached garage. He was glad to see all the locks were still in place as he fished out his keys, opened it up and spotted his chopper right where he left it.

Stef was hot on his heels, storming into the garage, her mouth flapping already as she clutched the sheet around her still naked body, "This is my house too you know?"

Hawkeye spun around nose to nose with her. "No! It isn't. You came after I bought the house. _You_ didn't want to get married, remember?" He snatched something from the corner work bench. "Said we didn't need a piece of paper to prove our undying love, remember?" He twisted past her, gas can in hand.

Stef chasing after him, "Yeah, but I live here!"

"Not any more you don't!" Hawkeye began splashing the gas around the living room— the kitchen— the hall— the bath— saving the last for the two bedrooms.

"What are you doing?!" Stef shrieked at him.

"Renovating." He tossed the empty gas can on the deflated waterbed and marched down the hall, giving two shits less if she was following or not. "You might want to step outside." He made a pit stop in the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of lighter fluid and made a trail of the liquid fuse out the front door.

His neighbor across the street was standing in her driveway; having come out when she must of heard the guns shots at 6:00 in the morning. "Oh, dear Hawkeye! You're back!" He could hear the concern in her voice. Was it what she had just heard or her knowing what he just discovered?

Hawk just waved, but kept his eyes down, Ms. Milner didn't need to see the rage burning in his eyes, right now. He went around to the front of the garage released the bolt and rolled up the door. He took a mental note of his shop tools. _He'd have to come back for them later_.

Hawkeye wheeled his chopper out then locked it all back up. He saddled onto his bike, pulled the Zippo from his jacket pocket, glancing at it in his hand a moment— damn, he liked this one too.

Stef's eyes grew wide followed by a scream, "NO!"

Hawk tossed the zip and instantly the trail of gasoline lit up and ran for the house. In seconds the place was in flames. He revved the chopper, letting it roll forward to where he could snatch up his duffle back, still laying in the driveway. He slung it over his shoulder and toed the shift petal into gear.

"You're insane!" He heard Stef screaming after him as he rode off.

"Never think when you're lifting weights, Son."

Hawkeye's thoughts broke; he looked up to find the Navy Commander standing over him.

"It's a double jeopardy when beaten' yourself up." The Commander claimed the bar from Hawkeye's fingers and returned it to its resting-hook. Hawkeye hadn't paid attention, but now he saw he was soaked in sweat, and worse yet, his whole body was hurting. Not to mention, the spots of blood staining through his white, wife-beater.

"Looks as though you tore some stitches. Better get one of them gals inside to look at it."

Hawkeye eased himself up one hand on his side. "I'll be alright."

"Son, you may be in the Marines outfit, but I am still a Commanding officer." The older man cocked an eye at him. It was more of one of those — _don't make me thump you_ — looks rather than a — _I'll throw the book at ya_ — looks.

"Aye, Commander."

Hawkeye took a quick shower before following orders, but by the time he got back to his bunk— someone was waiting on him. _The Beloved Woman_. He wasn't in a frame of mind to let another in his heart, so he shared something else with her.

Dear beloved woman,

I thought of you tonight, craving your silken cunt. I was shaking, fever raging from my loins for you. I imagined your lips, your tongue, delicious and warm, and my cock throbbed, unsated, needing to be deep inside you.

Out here in the sand the sunsets set flames all around us. How blue becomes pink and gold, from that deep breath I imagine your body turning from creamy ivory to a fragrant color of blushing pink. And as your body writhes with greedy need to come with me, the sky turns fuchsia and crimson, but I cannot tear my eyes from the sight of your dewy red petals and the sweet nectar that drips from it.

I closed my eyes needing rest, yet I thought of you still. My hunger won out. I could taste you on my lips. I was dreaming while awake, hungering for your moans, recalling images of your fingers wrapped around my cock, stroking me until I can't breathe, I need to come so hard.

The passionate night fled without a visible trace, but left a trail of cords of white release. And still I thought of you, pressing gently into me, wanting the touch of my calloused hand probing the deepest part of your nether.

The brush of your hair as it spills over my groin like a drape of pure unraveled silk, the feathery touch of your lips on the engorged glands of my shaft, the warm embrace of your tongue as it dances around me. I claim your sweetness and drink the nectar you spill for me. Like spring time come alive.

Our bodies feel like we've been swept up in a storm of blissful sensation whirling and tumbling over each other's glistening bodies, slick and saturated with the juices of our fulfillment, filling the night air with the linger scent of musk and the cries of rapture.

Falling into each other's arms into a floating song of breath and heavy heart beats. I will dream of you again and every night until I return home, my beloved woman— my courtesan.

With love

A beloved soldier

After Warren had helped keep Kyle calm enough to write a letter, they were stuck with the question of who to give it to. Warren was on his way home and into his young wife's arms; Kyle was leaving in another day for a hospital in the UK.

Hawkeye didn't figure himself being a very good judge of character at the moment, so once he'd added Kyle's letter to the collection, he passed it off to the Navy Commander who'd only come by for a checkup since it was close. He was a commander and had apparently raised five boys from what he heard; he'd know what to do with the letter.

Dear beloved woman,

Thank you.

Thank you for reaching out to let me know you are still there, still waiting for me.

Thank you for the kiss of your sweet lips and most of all—

Thank you for loving me without ever demanding to know me.

With love,

A beloved Soldier

Commander Rory Tomecek couldn't say no when the boys at the HCP asked him to get the Beloved Woman out where she could reach those who needed to hear from her. He hadn't minded himself; he knew the importance of knowing there was a good woman waiting at home on him. And these boys needed to know that too. His wife Martha had been a good woman— the best of women, who'd stuck with him through hell and high water, which included three long stints in activation. However, she had passed away two years ago and he missed reading the letters she would send on a regular basis.

Dear beloved woman,

Your letter was so warm, yet it ached for your soldier's touch. Since I cannot touch you, I was compelled to take pen in hand and reach out for you with words of my own and hope my words became fingers that could touch you as you had touched me. You are so beautiful and so brave to have traveled so far, to find your beloved soldier. Images of how you touched me will always remain in my heart like a favorite song.

Thinking about the way your kiss and the delicate caress of your fingers against my cheek made me warm inside in a way the sun could not do for me. The way you love with all your heart, fills me with the most strength and courage to keep going and endure another day until I can finally return home.

Beloved Woman, I love you from the depth of my heart, and will cherish yours until we may kiss again.

With love,

A Beloved Soldier

"Commander."

Rory looked up from his desk in his office, broken from fond memories of his wife. "Whatcha got for me, Ensign?"

"General is in the ready room, requesting your presence sir."

The war weary commander sighed, rubbing his brow a moment. They'd been expecting this, it wasn't new news, but it was a whole heap of shit news. Where they were going, many weren't gonna come back, no matter how well they planned for it, and they had planned— four convoys of weapons, gear, MRAP vehicles had been sent in to ready the troops for this. If the General was calling him in now, that meant the time had come— they were going in.

He handed the letter in his hand over to Ensign Coyt Enjady. That man was in a strange world all his own, but he was a good man and took damn good care of him. He couldn't ask for a better ensign.

"Hold on to this for me and keep it safe."

Coyt looked at the letter along with the bundle of others tied to it. "What is it, sir?"

"The Beloved Woman."

Coyt's mouth dropped, watching his Commander head down the hall for the ready room.

He looked back down at the letters and grinned, a devilish one at that. He wasn't attached to any one particular woman, nor did he want to be. What he did want was to show her just what he'd love to do for a special woman.

Dear beloved woman,

I bet you never met a teddy like me. I'm an oral teddy and I love the taste of a woman's cream more than anything else in the world. This beloved oral teddy will lick and fuck your sweet pussy for hours with my long tongue. I will deliver the most mind blowing and sensual suckling and I'll nibble at your hooded clit until you are screaming for release and cry out my name begging me to fuck you. Would you like to come out and play with your oral teddy bear soldier?

With love

A beloved soldier

Coyt had barely finished when the Commander came out of the conference, not looking at all thrilled with what he was about to announce to his commanding team.

"Boys, we're heading for the hot zone." He turned to his Ensign, "You still have that letter.

"Yes. I was going to pass it on to a few of the guys—"

"Cancel that. That letter has touched an awful lot of men, but I am not going to risk it getting destroyed where we're going. Put her on the next chopper heading out, I want that letter back in the safe zone."

Petty Officer II Lariat Geronimo had waited two weeks since he'd heard about it, to get his hands on the letter. Now he had orders to deliver it to safer grounds. Lariat loaded up in the Blackhawk and off they went. The letter now in the back of his mind and still he managed to speak soothing words to her, that he'd make time for her soon enough. He just had to make things all safe again first and then they'd have some time together.

The district had been cooking with threats for weeks now. And the choppers had become recent targets. They just left sector nine when a small arms rocket was fired from a ruined building they flown over. The sensor alarms went off and the pilot veered just enough to avoid a direct hit but the rocket nicked their rear rudder making the tail control unsteady, forcing them to making an emergency landing at a nearby Airforce station, so he took a moment to cherish the letter and write his response.

Dear beloved woman,

I awoke this morning with the memories of your visit in my dreams and the intoxicating sex we had together as I filled your saturated walls sheathing my hardened sword. Sinking inside you was like being in heaven. I died in you and when twilight came you slipped away leaving me sated. I crave you now, even more than I did before we kissed. What a strange effect you have on my heart and my lust. I ache with my need of you.

And there can be no rest for me until I have tasted your honey again, and felt your heart pounding in a lustful cacophony of passion with mine. I yield fully to you and to the profound feelings you inspire. Beloved Woman, I want to draw the soul-searing taste of your lips and feel your satiny breasts against my palms.

Until then, a thousand kisses I send your way.

With love,

A beloved soldier

As it turned out, the men at the airfield, just as many of the men in his battalion, had all heard about the letter from the Beloved Woman. So from Lariat's hands she was passed on to the first man he came across who'd just recently gotten a Dear John letter from home.

Staff Sergeant Gaeton Loughheed knew about the letter because Miles came practically every day asking if anyone had heard any updates. He was certain the man had a map in his quarters, like what kids do when tracking Santa Claus around the globe with the help of radar updates from the local news stations. So when Gaeton heard that the letter was coming in on the downed Blackhawk, he rushed over to the repair hanger to request it.

Only he took the time to be touched and touch back before sending it Mile's way.

Dear Beloved woman,

I have vague memories of us sharing a night of intense, sensual sex. Was it you that came to my dreams as you claim to have done so in your letter?

You were there, a misty specter like a goddess of love from some better, forgotten time. You held me and seduced me. I felt the sweet warmth of your lips on mine, tasted the need on my tongue. Your sultry body clinging softly to mine.

Through dark halls, you led me to a private place, a place to be alone and to be only for each other, where we made love until you cried and fell limp and sated underneath me.

But ,in the morning you were gone, vanished like a dream lost in the night. Now, I can only go through my day until night comes again and wish your return to refresh my memory of your touch, and each night will get me through the next day. Thank you my Beloved Woman for this.

With love,

A beloved soldier

Miles Conley had heard of the letter and he couldn't help but hope it would find its way into his hands; he just wanted to know what it felt like to get a letter from a woman. His girl broke up with him two weeks before he shipped out. That was four years ago and he still had yet to get a letter from a girl, not even a Dear John one.

Anytime they had a new unit pass through their sector, he'd ask about it, but so far, no one had actually seen it. He was beginning to think the whole thing was just a story passed on to kill the time.

He was sitting in the cockpit of his plane, getting ready for his next scheduled fly-over when he spotted Kip running his way. Waving at him. Miles slid the canopy back and waited for him, just in case it was important, "What's up? You're gonna make me late and the Captain don't like it when we got off schedule."

Kip twisted, his hand clamped over his ribs huffing to catch his breath. He winced, glancing up at Miles in the cockpit, then finally thrust the bundle of envelopes tied together his way.

Miles glanced down at the disheveled collection of envelopes Kip was offering up. "What's that?" He wrinkled his nose, not sure he even wanted to touch them.

"Dear soldier, with Love," Kip huffed out between breaths.

Miles surged nearly out of his bucket seat, reaching over to snatch the bundle from him, "Kip, if I were on the ground I swear I'd kiss you."

Kip flipped his hand towards him still panting, "Just make sure you come back in one piece, so you can write her back." He landed a decent long breath to steady all the others, "Don't you think you're pushing your luck volunteering to take these Raptors all the time? They're too damn quirking in the guts."

"Nah— just gotta know how to lay your hands on the girl, that's all." Miles gave him a thumbs-up smile, dropped back in his seat and pulled the canopy over his head and locked it into place. As he powered up, watching Kip lumber back to the hanger, he glanced at the bundle in his lap. All the letters other men had written in response, following the love sick woman on her journey to find her lost beloved soldier. That's what they say anyways. And she was finally his. "Hello beautiful, it's about time you wrote me, huh?" He stuffed the bundle inside his flight jacket, gave it a pat, then turned his focus toward his mission.

Miles narrowly avoided the first small range missile before he picked up the tracking of two more coming his way. Shit! Who the hell was shooting at him?— duh, motherfucker you are— In. A. War. Zone.

_Needed to drop down, shorten' that aim span, don't give anything to aim for_. Miles brought his plane down low and picked up speed. The F22s were fast and they could shimmy in the air like a fine tuned dancer. No way could anyone get a lock on him like this, but he wasn't expecting the 50cal as it filled his girl's belly with shells as he flew over. The cockpit filled with sparks and smoke. Miles felt the sudden bite in his side. It had to be some shrapnel that got him, because had he taken a direct hit from the fifty that would mean he was still trying to fight the good fight up in heaven, because didn't nothing seem any different, other than his side was on fuckin' fire. And he didn't think that they had battle zones or pain in heaven, not his version of it anyways.

Sparks flew up from the dash, sending several of his gauges into chaos.

"Come on, now. This is no time to be having a temper tantrum girl. You know ol' Miles has been super good to you, but how you expect me to get you one of them fancy engagement rings if you're going be actin' up like this when I need you the most?" Miles started talking to his Rapture plane unit. Recalling how he'd once had a Grand National that would act up from time to time, but talk to her and she always got him home. The F22's? Pretty much the same moody, bratty type girls as he recalled it.

The engines sputtered and more sparks flew out from under his instrument panel. "No-no-no-no— that's not how we get through this, remember? You can't walk out on me when we're still 1500 feet up in the air. Now come on, give me some sugar baby and let's get home. Then you can fuss all you want, alright? Just get me home." He winced, feeling the first spike of nausea from the pain now; his hand went to his side felt the wetness soaking through his shirt. He hated looking down, but he needed to just let it register how bad he was— _shit_. He looked, only a flicker, but his hand was soaked in blood from just one touch, "Come on, baby. Just get me down on a runway, please. Get me home."

Miles woke up to white walls. Bright lights and white drapes hung around him; it might have at first startled him, but all the noise, nurses chattering— doctors calling for hemostats—

"We need more blood!" someone else called out. It all sounded like he was underwater— he wasn't, was he? His vision was about the equivalent of being underwater as well. Maybe he was. _Nah— dumbass you're still breathing._

Was somebody hurt?

"Doctor, he's awake." He heard someone else say.

_Oh yeah_ , that someone was him. He wasn't feeling much now, though. Probably a good thing.

"You just hang in there, son," a man in bloody scrubs was leaning over him talking in slow motion.

The affirmation echoing in Miles' head as he was fading back out, "Wait!" He fought to stay awake, clinging to consciousness. "Don't-"

Someone was leaning over him "What do you need?"

"Don't lose my love letter, please. I didn't get a chance to read it yet." He tried to tell them. _He did say it, right? Did he get it all out? Fuck, he was tired— deal with it later._

And everything drifted away again.

"So what's with him" Miles indicated to the comatose man in the bed next to his, when the shift doctor came by to check up on his recovery.

Doc shook his shoulders, "AMS flight unit came across him and what little was left of his JVT. He was messed up pretty bad, the two others with him were scattered in pieces. Someone tried to take a shot at him to finish the job, the bullet meant for his heart was lodged in his dog tags, all we know is his first name starts with the letters MA- and his last name ends with -RG"

"You mean nobody even knows who he is?"

"Not until the man wakes up and tells us, and if he doesn't remember, well then," He shrugged. "I suppose when the burns on his hands heal, we can run a finger print check."

Miles reached under his pillow and pulled out the letters, "Say doc, you think you could help me get a little closer."

"What for?"

"If nobody knows who he is, chances are the letters from his girl haven't made it to him. I got a cure for that."

"What good is that going to do? He can't hear you."

"So then it helps me alright?"

The doctor looked at him. He had that old fashion air about him though, not like the rest of the docs in the field hospital "Yeah, okay I suppose there's no harm in it." He shrugged, "I'll send an orderly to help you out as soon as they can."

"Thanks, doc."

It musta been a half hour by the time Smithy came waltzing by and nearly passed him over without stopping.

"Hey!"

Smithy, a stout copper top dude in white scrubs stopped, looking around then leveled his gaze down on Miles, "Yeah man, you okay? You need something?" he spoke in a hushed tone, his request was genuine.

"Yeah, doc was supposed to send you to help me outta bed. Said I could sit in the wheelchair a bit, so I can visit."

Smithy glanced over the bed next to his and over at Adam, a few bunks down, who was sleeping at the moment, "Alright, but no visiting anyone that ain't already up. Ya hear?"

"Yeah-yeah" Miles shook his head. He was just going to read to the dude next to him. Who technically wasn't up, but then Miles wasn't likely to disturb him either. If he did— that'd be a good thing— wouldn't it?

Miles sat in the wheelchair beside the other man's bed and read to him, as the evening light faded. He took his time, letting every word have its nuance, its own emotion. He'd never in his life read anything like it and there were a few spots he went back and read again. Just to be sure he said it right, or just to hear it again. The way she worded things. You just felt every bit of what she wanted to feel in return.

"Vivian?" a dry hoarse voice broke from the sleeping man's lips.

"What'd you just say?" Miles was leaning up; he was certain the man just said something— sounded like a name, but not sure.

The comatose man moved. First, just his head like struggling to break from a dream. An arm floated up slowly, feeling its way through a groggy mind until it found its owner's head and rubbed at his forehead before falling weakly back down to his side.

The sleeping man's eyes blinked open, then shut, his brow furrowed. Even the evening light was too bright all at once. He opened again, and then he focused in on Miles, sitting next to him. "Who are you?"

"Miles Conley, Senior Airman— pilot." He watched the other man's Adam's apple thump hard in his throat. "You want some water?" Miles grabbed the cup from the table, filled it with water and a straw and held it up to the waking man's mouth.

"What are you doing with Vivian's letter?" the other guy asked, after managing several long sips of the water offered to him.

"You know this woman?" Miles gave him a candid look, "You know who wrote this?"

"Yeah." His voice still dry despite the liquid refresher. He tried to manage a smile. "You don't forget a woman's talent for writing like that."

"Yeah, I guess not. Do you remember your name?"

He made a face. "If I know my beloved's— I think I'd know mine." He swallowed again. "Mathias, Mathias Clayberg. SEALS unit."

"Well, Mathias, have I got a story for you."

Miles spent the next few hours telling John-Doe-Mathias about the journey of the Beloved Woman and read out all her correspondences. About the men she had touched along the way. And without a request from the man, Miles brought a pen and some paper for the _Beloved Soldier_ she had been seeking to find all this time through them, so he could finally write her back and let her know he was safe and still alive.

Back in his bed, Miles drifted in and out of sleep, still tired from his own ordeal. Yet, he was caught up with the man he'd discovered, watching Mathias as he sat up until late in the night writing his letter by flashlight.

Miles woke after what seemed like several days of sleep. He blinked several times, trying to let his eyes adjust to the brightness of the room. _Damn, it really was bright in here_. Just when his vision cleared the ceiling above him seemed to spin and waver over him. _Whoa, his head was in a fog too_. He blinked his eyes several times more, forcing them to focus. He rattled his head about and dragged his hands over his face a moment.

Doc said he'd be tired a while on account he'd lost so much blood, but damn. He scrubbed at his face a moment longer, letting the cob webs of sleep drift away. He raised his arms up and forced his body to stretch, feeling his joints pop in various places. His eyes peeked open once again and he glanced over to see how his bunk mate was doing. He did a double take, finding it was empty. Not just empty though, it was already pressed and made up ready for the next broken chump to arrive. The sheets made up and tucked in a tight uniform fashion, good enough you could probably pass the quarter-thump-test on it. His Captain, certainly, would be impressed.

He frowned though, dude's awake one day and already he's been shuffled off. Now, Mailes didn't have anyone to talk to and he still had several more days before they were gonna let his ass outta here.

He spotted the orderly, Buckley, coming his way, "Hey Buck— what happen to Mathias?"

"Hey! You're awake? How you feeling? Should I fetch the doc for ya?"

Miles gave him an odd glance and shook his head, "Nah, I'm good, but where's Mathias?"

The man stopped and looked at him with a quirk of his lips, "Who?"

"The Lieutenant." Miles' head jutted in the direction of the empty bed next to him, but still got nothing more than a — _I don't know what the fuck you're talking about_ — look from the orderly. "The Navy dude that was in that bed. You know, just woke up yesterday. You guys found out his name was Mathias Clay— something or other." _What was his last name_? Clayton? Claymore? Clayberg. Yeah, that was it. "You know the dude, Lieutenant Mathias Clayberg."

Buckley grew still, shooting Miles an un-approving glance. "Look, I don't know how you know about the John Doe that was here. He died like over a month ago. He was never ID'd, they're still waiting for dental records or something."

Miles rolled to his side wincing a bit as he moved, he stared at the empty bed next to him, at the clean pressed sheets, the fluffed pillow, no life machine or the tubes that had just been there the day before. He looked back at the orderly who was eyeing him with a suspicious concern now.

"I don't understand. I was just talking to him yesterday—" still no register from Buckley and it was pissing him off. Miles knew what he saw. Hell, he talked with the man all day yesterday. The guy told him stories, like where the best places to take a woman to make love to her or the most romantic spots to propose. They joked about what were the best foods to eat from a woman's belly or suckle from her breasts— jam, they had agreed on that. Jam on a woman's hard nipples was a man's favorite candy. And while Miles was off thinking about peanut butter and grape jelly, Mathias was trying to describe what frog jam tasted like. Then, they'd both agreed blueberry pie was better when eaten off a woman's stomach and could keep you there all day, just trying to finish the job. Mash potatoes and gravy was a close second.

Miles knew what he saw and he saw a man, and talked with the man in that very bed, yesterday. He glared back at the orderly, who was just waiting for him to make some sense.

"There was a dude in that bed!" Miles jammed a finger in the direction of the empty hospital cot next to him, "I was reading that letter to him and he just woke up. We talked all day about all kinds of stuff. Then he sat up all night writing a letter back to the Beloved Woman. Mathias said it was his woman. As in _for real_ his woman. He said her name was Vivian. It was her handwriting and now you're telling me no one's been in that bed for a month now?"

"The man that was in that bed was in a coma for eight months after his convoy came up on a roadside ambush. He was really messed up, he never woke up." Buckley paused a moment, "And for the record, you've been unconscious since you came in three days ago. You weren't talking to anyone yesterday, but you were mumbling something about a letter when you arrived. I put it under your pillow there. You were probably just dreaming the stuff. There weren't no one in that bed, not today— not yesterday— not the day before, not for a month now." He straightened; planting a fist on his hips, and threw a thumb in the direction of the doors. "Look, I'm gonna step out and have a smoke. Whatever weirdness you think you're experiencing?" He waved his fingers around in a sweeping wave. "Make sure you get it out of your system before I come back so's I don't have to go telling the doc, alright?"

Miles nodded, still glaring at Buckley as he walked off, and then at the empty bed. He reached under his pillow, his fingers finding the letter— but only one.

He pulled it out, breathing a sigh of relief as he saw the one letter that remained was the letter the woman had written to all the soldiers who needed to hear sweet love words from a woman's lips.

His nose twitched with a zesty fragrance, he glanced down at the stained, crumbled envelope in his hand and brought it up to his nose and was immediately met with the glorious smell of jasmine and orange rinds and— he sighed, pure fragrance of beautiful and beloved woman. He smiled. The scent that had long since vanished, long before her letter reached him, was now fresh and wonderful, like a kiss.

He tilted his pillow up glancing under it, not really expecting to find the other thirty or so letters that had been written in response to the touch she had shared with them. He knew they were gone, just like Mathias Clayberg. He laughed at himself; he had no idea why he would so easily accept such a crazy notion. He leaned over the edge of his bed, glancing down at the floor, just to say he looked.

There, on the floor, was the piece of paper he had gotten for Matthias, folded neatly, but not tucked away in an envelope as the others had. Miles reached over grasping it with his fingers. It was the letter Mathias had been writing.

He lay back; just glancing at the folded stationary in his hand then tucked it away with the other. He didn't need to read it. As he closed his eyes, he recalled the last thing he remembered during the night as he was drifting to sleep, listening to Mathias as the man read out what he knew his Beloved Vivian needed to hear.

My Dear Beloved,

It grieves me waking up to find I had left you for so long without words to comfort you in the absence of my arms. It grieves me more that such a simple thing as a kiss is far from being simple in its reception. For it is not until one has suffered its loss that a man can come to understand the depth of its bond— that even the gentlest of caress carries with it a yearning so deeply rooted it can anguish the mind to not have it. And I fear in lack of the knowledge my kiss has not touched you in the ways a kiss was meant to be, to kiss my beloved woman in the way she should be kissed. Deeply and with utter abandon of any and all things. Nothing but that sharing, as my lips come over your mouth, crushing you to me so there is no question that you belong to me, and your beloved soldier would have no other underneath him.

If I can turn back time, just once— it would be to the moment when we kissed the last, so that I could have it once more, knowing that the caress of your pliant red lips was part of a promise— only half of the kiss and I must return to finish that kiss. But alas, I cannot undo what I so foolishly did not understand, but having looked back, perhaps returning to deliver my kiss will still be as it is meant to be.

I stand before you now, my beloved woman as the loved-sick soldier you have waited so long to return. I find myself unable to draw out the precious moment and instantly fall upon a pillow of sweet bliss. That warmth, how I forgot how precious— I press deeper fusing our lips and suckle them to draw you even deeper still until your mouth parts with a faint gasp. I steal that small breath you shared with me and I offer to lick more like it from you, if only you'd open up and let me in. Will you, my beloved woman, forget I could not reach you in my absence? Will you let me come back to you now? And just then, your lips part for me in a welcoming yearning, refusing to be denied, for it wants its promise completed and your beloved soldier has finally returned to keep his promise and finish the kiss.

Yet, as I find my way inside you, finding the taste of your ambrosia kiss, lapping at it, tangling into your tongue like a dance of butterflies, I confess myself to you for I have never known such welcoming, such simple pleasure. As I had said, my beloved woman, that such a simple act is not received so simply, I discovered the kiss set loose a crimson wave that seeps through the body like liquid caramel, warming and igniting your body, carrying my kiss to culminate to another set of delicate and most precious lips.

My body burns to have you underneath me and that promised kiss once delivered insures it will be so, for it is part of the kiss.

The fingers of your beloved soldier reach out for you, now finding the soft rolls of your belly and with feathery touches, delivers the ticklish sensation that steals the giggles from your throat. Sweet sounds that your beloved soldier not only longs to hear, but feel against me, like the shiver of wind chimes made only by my breath in your ear. Its sound warms me, shoving away dark shadows I never thought could ever be chased away, but your kiss and the sensual song of your laughter are like rays of golden shine, burning away the darkness that has crept in my soul while I was away.

I can't help but follow the shimmering trail of quivers as they ripple through your body and lead my fingers to the soft curls of hair between your legs. I love how they feel between my fingers, like frolicking in soft baby grass in the spring. I know some men like the absence of it, but I prefer the soft touch just before I come across the apex of where that kiss sent its crimson wave. The delicate skin that gently guards the precious pearl, that once touched will blossom in an explosion of red petals like a poppy. The euphoria of watching you writhe under my weight will set me on fire like a narcotic drug.

I want only to touch you, releasing you from your yearning, my fingers parting the delicate folds, finding the silky presence of your nectar. I remember the taste like a morning rain in the spring. Your soft whimpering cries pleading me to never stop, even though you say you can't handle it. I love the tears that will stream down your cheeks as my tongue explores the opening of your hot theca. But, I wonder now, if I could ever get my fill of you. If I'll ever be able to taste enough of you, my beloved woman. Even as your thighs challenge the strength in my arms as I hold your delicate flower open so I can still sip the nectar from your body. And then, I will return to the lips that made me promise to return at the beginning of a long and lonely journey, kiss the tears you shed for me. Your long legs wrapping around my waist, inviting me to sink deep inside the tight nethers of your pudendum.

Oh, sweet mother of god, can your beloved soldier wait any longer? Endure the last moment from now until I will return to you?

I can hardly breathe, remembering how you feel around my hard shaft, a hunger that burns bright and hot for your body. My arms crushing around you, pressing you in my hold. I can feel the flutter of your lashes on my cheek; hear the moan clutch in your throat as I sink deep inside the rich sensations of your body. The drenched walls that hug every nerve ending of my lust.

Such titillating elixir as my cock sinks deep inside you, seeking every depth, every exalted sensation of your body as my hips find a rhythmic wave of deep penetrating strokes with a sizzling and blistering friction. Quenching our hunger with luscious euphoria.

It's been too long since last I heard your moans, felt your panting breath against my neck. The torrid flames of your pussy clamping around me, turning your beloved soldier into a savage man, blazing with the need to claim his woman. To remind her of the strong man she watched go into war and waited for his return. A salacious eroticism that will remind my woman what a woman is supposed to feel like after she has been ravaged by her returned lover.

Pushing up to brace my body up on my arms, strokes become thrusts as I find deeper regions of your body, leaving no part to be untouched, and I can watch your body writhe and toss. Your fair skin turns flushed with the most scrumptious blush of color, hot and pinkish, underneath me.

The building crescent of a wave drawing closer, building and building like a white squall, rolling like a tumultuous thunder set on sating the building thirst, igniting and laying claim to every succulent sound— every quiver of your body tormented by lust that can only be filled by the frenzied pounding of your beloved soldier.

Watching you, feeling you— throws my senses off its axis. Soaked in your juices, I feel drunk, unraveled by the phenomenal fury of your body. How you radiate in my arms. Oh god, my beloved, can I possibly hold out any longer? Just long enough to hear your cries split the night— to hear my name on your lips as you shudder with your release and sob, totally undone by ecstasy.

The building wave crashes, pummeling me in its power. My sails shoved into the storming sea of explicit and blissful madness. My dark walls destroyed. Will your arms be there to catch your beloved soldier when he is utterly spent and possessed by your heart and your kiss? As I will be there to catch you when you cum— will you hum a pink note of bliss under the crushing weight of my body, collapsed completely surrendered to your loving arms?

How foolish I had been— not understanding the power of your lips when we kissed that last moment. Will you ever forgive me? Having not known our last kiss was the promise I made— like the setting sun as it hisses and sizzles its last heated breath into the horizon of the sea, that explosion of color— crimsons, fuchsias and burnished umbers are its promise to return. And so I shall— having found that understanding, my beloved woman.

I am coming home my lovely Vivian— your beloved soldier and all those you have touched in your desperate journey to find me— We are coming home.

With Love,

Your Beloved Soldier, Mathias

Miles slipped the envelope, now containing the two letters back under his pillow, and lay back with another sigh. "Have a safe trip home— Beloved Soldiers."

THE END

Gay - MM Romance / War-time Romance / Drama

Chief Warrant Officer V Grey Lawrence never once stopped to consider what he was doing or why, just being there for Nathan Blaise, a Senior Technician of Explosives Ordinance Disposal, who'd just lost his leg from a mission gone wrong, seemed to be the right thing to do. And somehow Grey found some renewing comfort of his own when he was with him. Only Nathan would be transferring home back to the state-side of the world soon, Grey still had the war's wounded to deal with here.

So why was he doing this to himself?

Reasons only a past Dear John letter and the restored heart he found when he read the touching words written by an anonymous woman, the soldiers had penned 'the Beloved Woman' could explain. Perhaps those two things plus the half of a wounded man who could heal Grey's own dark half would deliver him to a future he never imagined or expected for himself again.

4 ½ SMOOCHES ~ "It was a really emotional tale about two soldiers who are both having a hard time getting past the horrors they have seen and are still dealing with and how they heal each other. I can't imagine how hard it would be to be in either of their positions. This one totally made me cry as I watched (read, same thing!) Grey and Nathan work on getting past both physical and emotional pain. Good job! ~ Book Whores Unit Reviews

EXCERPT

He glanced at the chair against the wall next to the bed, but dismissed it, he didn't have that much time, so he opted to just stand next to him. He took a deep breath letting out another heavy sigh and lowered down on the edge of the bed, looking him over— part medical observation part— something else.

He reached over grabbing the clipboard off the headboard of the bed and flipped through the paperwork of doctor notes. Senior Explosive Ordinance Disposal Technician – EOD1(EWS) - Nathan Blaise – Navy. Age twenty-five years. "Nice to meet you, Nathan," he whispered, watching to see if there was any response from the man. But there wasn't one.

Grey went on to read the doctor's medical report. Amputation went well and they were able to save his knee which would increase his maneuverability with a prosthetic. Blood count was good. Antibodies normal. Tests for hearing impairment due to compression and psych evaluation for memory scheduled for later.

Satisfied with the medical report, Grey put the clipboard back then allowed himself a brief human moment with the man who he now knew as _Nathan_. He brushed the backs of his fingers over Nathan's face, noting the dark circles under his eyes, mostly from blood loss and stress induced from pain. The continuous feed of morphine also contributed to the darkened skin. He brought his hand down, taking Nathan's, and just held onto it, a little less grip than what Nathan had yesterday when he refused to let go, even as Grey had tried to convince him he would be okay and that Grey needed his hands to tend to him.

"See, you made it. Didn't I tell you that you would?" Grey whispered to him. He stayed quiet for a few more moments just holding his hand. Hell, he didn't even know why he was there. Just something about Nathan reaching out to him in the chopper, desperate to hang onto something living. Now, Grey felt compelled to be here for himself, to hang on as long as need be.

Static in his shoulder clip radio meant time was up before the call was even verbalized.

" _Hey partner, need you back. We got a full load needing to be lifted_ ," Corbin spoke softly knowing full well where he was.

Grey couldn't explain it but he sure as hell didn't wander off without letting his partner know of his whereabouts. He reached up and depressed the mic button on the radio transmitter clipped to his uniform. "On my way." He released it, and for a split second held Nathan's hand with both of his before carefully slipping from Nathan's fingers, returning the sleeping man's hand across his stomach, and quietly stepped out.

DEAR SOLDIER SERIES

Dear Soldier, With Love

Dear Soldier, With Love II: A Lost Soldier Named Grey

Dear Soldier, With Love III: Hawkeye Down

Dear Soldier, With Love IV: The Long Walk Home

Both Proud Indy Authors: Talon P.S. and his twin, Tarian P.S. love to torment their editor with a nefarious world of foreign-language, slang, local dialect, stretched/outside-of-the-box synonyms. They're also known to throw in some con-lang at times. Though it will do you no good to scold them for it, they'll point to Shakespeare with a retort along the line of "He started it."

This, of course, is all thrown in there with the dyslexia soup stock they both suffer from that makes editing with them a joy. [joy: n see mental illness]

As a results of the abuse to their editors, the ignored kitties, and don't even bring up the house chores, the final product comes out as richly-detailed, holographic worlds of Suspense, Science Fiction, Erotic Romance, and Gay Fiction tales. Not to leave out Talon's favorite genre: Space Sci-Fi Frontiers; and Tarian's favorite genres Post-Apocalyptic Dark Fantasies, all for readers to submerse themselves into and escape from the mundane.

So be sure to have your reading glasses ready and stake out some prime cozy real estate cushions, because once you open these pages— Oh, the places we will go!

DISCOVER THESE OTHER TITLES BY TALON PS & TARIAN PS

DOMINION OF BROTHERS SERIES

Becoming His Slave

Devenir Son Esclave (partie 1 & 2) {French Edition}

Domming the Heiress

A Place for Cliff

Un Havre pour Cliff {French Edition}

Rough Attraction

Taking Over Trofim

Right One 4 Diesel

QUANTUM MATES:

Pt 1~ What Torin Wants

DEAR SOLDIER SERIES:

Dear Soldier, With Love

Dear Soldier, With Love II: A Lost Soldier Named Grey

LYCOTHARIAN COLLECTION:

Bond of the Lycaon Concubine

TALON's KEEP COLLECTION:

Feral Dream by Talon ps

Danny's Dom by Nick Hasse

Muse Me Only

Inspire Moi Seulement {French Edition}

Feral Dream

THE TEDDY BEAR COLLECTION:

Their Plane from Nowhere

Big Spoon & Teddy Bear

Ivan vs Ivan

TIME: Wounds All Heal

TARIAN ALSO WRITES UNDER THE FOLLOWING PEN NAMES FOR SEPARATE GENRES

STEPHAN KNOX ~ HISTORICAL FANTASY AND POST APOCALYPTIC SCI FI

Anáil Dhragain (Dragon's Breath)

Keeping His Destiny

ROCK HARDING ~ ADULT COLORING BOOKS

The Adventures of Hugh Jorgan

CONNECT AND FOLLOW THE TWINS:

WEBSITE

THE TWIN'S AUTHOR PAGE

TALON ON GOODREADS / TARIAN ON GOODREADS

TWITTER

