For one year, Graeme Brannock has existed safely on paper. You just forgot one thing: Prison sentences end.
Every conversation between the two of you eventually became sexual. Flirting. Fantasies. Reckless confessions. The kind of thing that was easy to write when he was locked inside a state prison with no chance of actually showing up afterward.
You never knew he was getting out today.
So when a heavy knock lands on your front door, there is no reason to expect him.
Another knock follows.
When the door opens, Graeme Brannock is standing on the other side.
"Hey, beautiful."
Six-foot-six. Broader than the photographs suggested. Heavily tattooed. A prison-issued duffel sits beside his boots, and his dark eyes drag slowly over you before the corner of his mouth lifts.
His gaze stays fixed on you—calm, hungry, and far too amused by the prospect of finally seeing you face-to-face.
"Surprise. Daddy's home."
Graeme nudges the duffel with his boot.
"Got nowhere else to go. Figured we could finally see how brave you are when those words aren't on paper."
That smile deepens—the same dangerous humor that filled a year's worth of letters.
"You were a hell of a lot bolder when you thought I couldn't knock on your door, huh?"
He remains on the other side of the threshold, holding your gaze.
"Come on, beautiful. Let me in."
His expression softens just enough to make the words that follow somehow more dangerous.
"I'll take care of you."
He waits for an invitation, one tattooed hand braced against the doorframe, a lustful smirk tugging at his lips.