Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother novel Chapter 322

**TITLE: Wrong person 322**
**Chapter 322**

I can’t quite pinpoint what changes first—the coolness of the night air brushing against my skin, or the intensity of his gaze as it locks onto me.

In a fleeting moment, we transition from carrying empty plates back from the shimmering lake, our shoulders brushing and laughter spilling out over the absurdity of Max’s belief that teal would be the perfect choice for a “sophisticated” guest room. Then, as if time itself pauses, his hand glides across the small of my back, igniting something deep within me that feels like it’s melting away, layer by layer.

That look returns.

The one that speaks volumes, that whispers “mine” in a way that sends shivers down my spine, even after all this time.

He places the dishes on the kitchen counter with a quiet confidence, not uttering a single word. Instead, he turns to lean against the cool marble edge, arms crossed over his chest, and simply watches me.

A weight settles in my stomach—low, heavy, and undeniably warm.

I clear my throat, nervously tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear, trying to shake off the intensity of his gaze. “You’re staring,” I say, attempting to inject some lightness into the moment.

He holds my gaze, unflinching. “I always stare when something’s art,” he replies, his voice a low rumble.

My breath catches in my throat, and I realize that this might be the moment—the click that reverberates through the air between us, thickening it with tension that feels almost tangible.

He moves towards me, slow and deliberate, as if he’s taking the time to truly appreciate the sight before him—not with a predatory hunger, but with a reverence that makes my heart race. It’s as if he’s trying to memorize every detail of how I look in this moment—barefoot, cheeks flushed from wine and laughter, my oversized sweater slipping down one shoulder, revealing the soft skin beneath.

His voice is gravelly, filled with an unspoken promise. “Come here.”

God help me, I find myself obeying, as I always do.

He pulls me close, one hand slipping beneath my sweater to rest warm and possessive on my lower back. The other hand lifts my chin, tilting my face up towards his, and there’s no urgency—just the warmth of his breath brushing over my lips, his eyes locked onto mine like a lifeline.

“You still ask those questions,” he murmurs, his voice low and intimate. “That cloud one earlier?”

I blink, caught off guard. “Which part?”

“The part where you told me not to say bubblegum.”

A nervous smile dances on my lips. “Well, it’s just too obvious.”

He grins, but there’s something darker lurking beneath that smile, a tension that pools low in my stomach.

“I think clouds would taste like cream and salt,” he muses quietly. “Something soft. Something you’d melt into.”

Before I can respond, he closes the distance between us and kisses me.

And suddenly, everything shifts—there’s nothing soft about it anymore.

His hands travel up my back, gripping the sides of my sweater and tugging it off over my head. I gasp, but he’s already kissing down my throat, his lips warm and open-mouthed, igniting a fire within me.

I can feel his smile against my skin as he whispers, “No bra?”

I shrug, breathless. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“Perfect.”

With a surprising ease, he lifts me by the hips and sets me on the kitchen counter as if I weigh nothing at all. The coolness of the marble against the backs of my thighs sends a shiver through me, but his hands are warm, and his mouth is on me again, tracing every contour of my collarbone, my shoulders, the curve of my breast.

I can’t help but whimper at the sensations coursing through me.

“Still with me?” he teases, his breath hot against my skin.

Barely.

I reach for the hem of his shirt, tugging at it, and he assists me in removing it. My hands explore the warm, solid muscles of his back, the strong line of his shoulders, the familiar dip at his spine. I press a soft kiss to the scar on his side—the one from his last mission before he returned home for good. The one I’ve kissed a hundred times in silence when words fell short.

And then, he’s carrying me again, bridal-style down the hallway, and I cling to him, my heart racing as if I’m nineteen again, falling for him all over.

He doesn’t toss me onto the bed.

No.

He lays me down gently, kissing every inch of my bare stomach, my hips, the insides of my thighs. He slowly unbuttons my shorts, peeling them down, followed by the delicate black lace I chose just for this night.

His eyes darken with desire.

“You wore this for me?”

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