That’s the problem.
That’s always the problem.
So I turn away from her—fast—before I do something that’ll ruin everything.
Before I come in my damn boxers like some greenhorn who’s never been kissed by a woman who smells like cookies and warmth and home.
Jesus.
She looks so good and wrecked.
Perfectly wrecked.
Her hair’s a mess, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and glossy from my mouth.Her blouse is rumpled, cardigan slipping off one shoulder, chest rising and falling like she just ran a mile—or like she just let me kiss her senseless in her living room.
Which I did.
And fuck if I don’t want to do it again.
I grip the edge of the doorframe and breathe through my nose, forcing the animal part of me to heel.
Because, yeah—I want her.I want her badly.
I want to turn around, pull her back into my arms, finish what we started on that couch.
I want to feel her under me.Around me.Mine.
But wanting her isn’t the priority.
Keeping her safe is.
That’s the job.That’s the line.That’s the one thing I cannot afford to screw up.
She’s not some hookup.Not a distraction.Not a way to blow off steam between ops.
She’s more than that.
So much more.
She trusts me enough to let me into her home.Who lets me bring her tea and cinnamon buns.Who looks at me like I’m not a weapon, but a man.
And if I let my dick run this operation, I’ll get her hurt.
So, I straighten my sweatshirt.
Adjust myself.
Force my pulse to slow.
I listen as she stands and moves to the bathroom.
And when I hear the door click closed?I put my fingers in my mouth.
The ones that were on her sweet cunt, and I groan as her sweet, tangy taste hits me hard.
Fuck me, she tastes as good as I imagined.
I can’t wait to have my mouth on her sweet pussy.
