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The idea of her cooking for me did shit to my insides.
“What is it?”
“Just eggs.” She cleared her throat again—her nerves clear. “Come on. I don’t want them to get cold.”
Inessa twisted around before I could say another word, and I followed her, watching her leave before I stalked after her at a slower pace.
She was a looker, going or coming. From the front, she had the best tits, and her face was heaven sent. From the back, that ass and her long, strong legs… It was going to be fun to bend her over my desk and fuck that bubble butt.
I gritted my teeth as my dick hardened, and even as I wondered when I’d turned into a fucking saint, I saw her bend over the second I got into the kitchen and pull out something from the oven.
The scent of cheese and eggs was a good combination, as was the bacon that tinged the air, but nothing beat the sight of her leaning over that way.
She wore sports shorts this time. The kind women wore to go jogging in, a little loose around the thigh, tight around the ass. The move pulled the fabric taut, shaping her butt to perfection, and creating a perfect seam down the crack of her ass and to her pussy.
Instantly, I regretted waiting to fuck her because, by now, she’d have been broken in.
The sight of her bent over like that made me want to fuck her so hard that, for a second, I couldn’t see straight.
It was insane, but I felt like some kind of animal who couldn’t control his urges. Who scented a bitch in heat, and who thought only with his instincts.
But I wasn’t an animal.
Sure, people, Inessa included, might think I was a beast because of what I did for a living, and with no guilt either, but I wasn’t.
Snipers were, by necessity, cold and calm. Logical. We studied a situation that was hundreds or thousand of yards away, taking into account things like wind speeds to assess the variables of a kill shot taking formation. We could control our breathing, our fucking heart rate, all to make that perfect hit.
We were not beasts, we didn’t fall to our baser instincts.
Yet here I was, doing nothing but that.
My mouth tightened as I let my fingers contract into fists once more. She wiggled her butt a little as she scooted back from the stove, and when she stood up, there was such glee on her face, that fuck, I wanted her even more.
She was proud of what she’d made. And considering I’d seen her earlier attempt at bacon and eggs, I could well understand as the scent in the kitchen was damn good.
But her triumph?
Her happiness?
Got to me like a hammer to the head.
Then she looked at me, and her smile died.
She blinked, the dish hovered in her hands, and she almost dropped it before she broke our gaze and placed it on the counter.
For a second, the only sound in the kitchen was the fan in the oven whirring as it cooled down. I felt frozen, as frozen as she was, then she raised her head, let our eyes connect once more, and she raised her chin.
I knew what that meant.
Game on.
And I was more than amped for the challenge.
That single gesture had my limbs stirring into action, and I surged forward, not stopping until we were inches apart.
She pressed her hands to my pecs, to hold me back or to touch me, I wasn’t sure, but when she licked her lips, I had no choice but to lower my head.
I’d tasted her once—at our wedding.
