Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
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.
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.”
“Uh-huh.” I focus on consuming what’s on my plate and trying not to flush as I recall how those sculpted lips felt on my neck, my breasts, my nipples… I want to believe that he caught me off-guard last night, that my response to him was the result of a sleep-clouded mind, but the excitement humming in my veins this morning belies that assumption.
Some sick part of me is glad to see him—and relieved that he’s alive.
Idiot, I chastise myself. Peter Sokolov is a wanted fugitive, a monster who took two lives in front of me after torturing me and killing George. A stalker whose presence in my life introduces innumerable complications and poses a threat to everyone around me.
It’s not just wrong to want him here; it’s downright pathological.
Still, as I finish my eggs and gulp down my coffee, I’m aware of a peculiar lightness in my chest. The house no longer feels huge and oppressive around me, the kitchen bright and warm instead of cold and threatening. He fills the space now, dominating it with his large body and the frightening force of his personality, and though he’s the last person I should want for companionship, I don’t feel the crushing pressure of loneliness when I’m with him.
A dog, I remind myself. All you need is a dog. And in the next breath, I realize there could be a problem with that—and with my new life plan in general.
“You know I’m moving out in a couple of weeks, right?” I say, putting down my empty cup. “I signed papers to sell the house.”