Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
I hesitated because I thought of Sara instead of my dead wife and son.
The recollection fills me with familiar rage and pain, and I force myself to take a slow, deep breath. If I didn’t feel so relaxed after fucking her, it would’ve been next to impossible to contain the agony flooding my chest, but as it is, I’m able to control myself—even when Sara gets up and excuses herself to go to the bathroom, still wrapped in the blanket.
She’s giving me the silent treatment, but it doesn’t bother me. It’s already after midnight, and there will be plenty of time to talk tomorrow.
Stretching out on the bed, I wait for Sara to return. It’s just as well she chose to cut short our little powwow. Though I barely exerted myself today, I feel as tired as after a mission. My body is still in recovery mode, a fact that frustrates me. I hate it when I’m not in battle-ready shape; weakness of any kind makes me feel antsy and unsettled.
Sara takes her time in the bathroom, but eventually, she reappears and lies down next to me, pointedly not sharing the blanket with me. Equal parts annoyed and amused, I pull the blanket off her and arrange it over both of us when I have her where she belongs: in my arms, with her tight little butt pressing against my groin.
“Good night,” I murmur, kissing the back of her neck, and when she doesn’t respond, I close my eyes, ignoring the twitching of my hardening cock.
As much as I’d like to fuck her again, I need rest, and so does she.
I can be patient. After all, I’ll have her again tomorrow—and every day after that.
Chapter 37
Sara
I wake up to the smell of coffee and bacon and the feeling of sunlight on my face. Confused, I open my eyes and see that it’s a half hour before my alarm is due to go off. As I attempt to process that, memories of last night invade my mind, and I groan, pulling the blanket over my head.
My Russian stalker is back—and cooking breakfast in my house.
After a minute, I convince myself to get up and go through my usual morning routine. Yes, my husband’s killer fucked me again last night—and made me come—but the world didn’t end, and I have to act accordingly.
I have to ignore the self-loathing knotting my insides and go to work.
Ten minutes later, I go downstairs, dressed and freshly showered. It’s strange, but I don’t feel any differently about Peter now that I know what he does for work. I’ve been thinking about him as a killer for so long that knowing he and his team do it for money hardly fazes me. However, it does reinforce my conviction that he’s dangerous—and that I need to tread carefully if I’m to avoid putting those I care about in his crosshairs.
“I hope you like bacon and scrambled eggs,” he says as I enter the kitchen. Like me, he’s fully dressed, minus shoes and the leather jacket hanging on one of the kitchen chairs. Once again, his clothes are dark, and the sight of him by the stove, so powerfully male and lethally handsome, jacks up my pulse and makes my stomach clench with something unsettling.
Something that feels suspiciously like excitement.
Pushing the thought away, I fold my arms in front of my chest and prop my hip against the counter. “Sure,” I answer evenly, ignoring my racing heartbeat. “Who doesn’t?”
As good as it would feel to throw the food in his face, I don’t want to provoke him until I figure out a new strategy.
“That’s what I figured.” He skillfully plates the eggs and bacon, then pours us each a cup of coffee.
Deciding that I might as well help out, I pick up the cups and carry them to the table. He brings the plates, and we sit down to eat breakfast.
The eggs are excellent, flavorful and fluffy, and the bacon is perfectly crisped. Even the coffee is unusually good, as though he used some secret recipe with my Keurig. Not that I expected anything else; each meal he’s fed me has been outstanding.
If the assassin/stalker thing doesn’t work out, my tormentor could consider a career as a chef.
The thought is so ridiculous I snicker into my coffee, prompting Peter to look up from his plate, eyebrows raised in a silent question.
“I was just thinking that you could do this professionally,” I explain, shoving a forkful of eggs into my mouth. Maybe this is another betrayal of George’s memory, but I can’t help remembering that my husband had never once made breakfast for me. A couple of times while we were dating, he attempted a romantic dinner—takeout Chinese with some candles—but otherwise, I either cooked or we went out.
“Thank you.” A smile touches Peter’s lips at my compliment. “I’m glad you like it.”