So, I did.
(Sunday,June 22)
When I woke up, the bed was empty. For one second, everything in me went cold. Then, I heard music. It was low, soft, and coming from somewhere downstairs. I sat up, listening. But there was just music.
I rubbed a hand over my face, then looked toward the bathroom. The cream was still on the counter. Her towel was folded over the bench. My shirt was gone, which meant she was still in it or had stolen it, no doubt with plans to deny it later. Either way, she was in this house.
I pulled on a plain black T-shirt, slipped into my slides, and made my way downstairs. The closer I got to the kitchen, the more I smelled. Coffee, something sweet, and bacon… realbacon, not that turkey shit Sergei ordered when he pretended he cared about my cholesterol.
Theory stood at the stove wearing my shirt. My wife’s hair was piled on top of her head, and her feet were stuffed into some furry slippers. She had one hip leaned against the counter and a spatula in her hand like she knew what she was doing.
For a moment, I didn’t move. She must have felt me, though, because she glanced over her shoulder.
“Good morning,” she said.
Her voice sounded sweet, kinda happy. There was no attitude or looking away, just “Good morning.” I smirked, now thoroughly convinced of the power of my dick.
I leaned against the doorway. “Morning.”
Her eyes moved over me in a way that was not shy at all. I returned the favor, biting my lower lip as I thought about getting her thick ass back in bed and folding her up.
“You slept?”
“A little.”
She scoffed. “That means no.”
“Nah. It really means a little.”
She cut her eyes at me. “I don’t know why I asked a Russian gangster a simple question and expected a simple answer.”
“I’m an American gangster, too,” I reminded her.
“Unfortunately for both countries.”
I smiled and changed the subject. “You cooking for me?”
Her shoulders lifted in a little nonchalant shrug. “I’m cooking breakfast. You happen to live here, so you can eat.”
“Oh, I just happen to live here?”
She pointed the spatula at me. “Don’t push it. Mr. Sidorov.”
“I wouldn’t dare, Mrs. Sidorov.”
I waited for the smart comeback, the denial. But she just peeked in the oven, letting the smell of the bacon waft more loudly. I pushed away from the doorway and walked toward her.She watched me come, and this time, she didn’t pretend she was annoyed by my closeness. She turned into me when I reached her, letting me put my hands on her waist.
I kissed the side of her neck. “How you feel?”
Her body softened against mine. “Good.”
“You sore?”
“A little.”
My hands tightened on her waist, turning her so I could search her eyes. She touched my chest, gave it a reassuring little stroke.
“Not in a bad way, Targen.”
