She picks up a piece of bread, sniffs it, then takes a tiny bite. Her eyes widen in surprise.
I smirk. Kayla makes good food, there’s no doubt about it. It’s just a shame she’d only cook for one person… me.
I find myself grinning as she devours the rest of the food. It shouldn’t matter to me whether she eats or not. She tried to kill me, for fuck’s sake. I should be planning her slow, painful death, not worrying about her appetite.
This is insane.
I’m Leonid fucking Kuznetsov.
I don’t lose control like this. But watching her lick her fingers clean, all I can think about is how those fingers would feel wrapped around my shaft, how that tongue would feel on my balls.
“Stop it, you idiot,” I mutter, tearing my eyes away from the screen.
There’s a stack of papers on my desk—merger proposals, shipping manifests, protection agreements. Important shit that needs my attention. I grab the first file, forcing myself to read the words.
But they might as well be in fucking Chinese, for all I understand them right now.
I turn to my computer, pulling up spreadsheets and financial reports. Numbers. Cold, hard facts. That’s what I need right now.
My eyes betray me, creeping back to the monitor.
She’s finished eating now, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Then she starts exploring the room, running her fingers along the walls, examining every corner.
Suddenly, she stops. Her head tilts up, eyes narrowing.
Fuck. She’s found the camera.
She’s clearly no ordinary assassin. My camera’s tiny, practically the size of a fly. Something normal people would never notice. But she did, without missing a beat. She’s definitely not your average operative; she must be part of some top-tier underground organization.
I lean forward, breath caught in my throat. My cock is straining against my zipper.
In slow motion, she drags the nightstand across the floor. The legs screech against the hardwood, and I wince at the sound.
She climbs up, giving me a full view of her tits as she reaches for the camera. Christ, they’re perfect. Full and round.
Then she smirks, looking directly into the lens. My heart stops.
With deliberate slowness, she raises her middle finger, her eyes never leaving the camera.
I find myself leaning closer to the screen, trying to get closer to her.
I watch as her hand closes around the camera, trying to yank it free.
“Fucking piece of shit,” she snarls, voice muffled through the audio.
“That’s right, kitten. Fight it,” I mutter.
Every movement, every flash of frustration on her face, sends a jolt straight to my cock.
Her teeth sink into her lower lip as she strains against the camera, and I have to stifle a groan. I want to be the one biting that lip, tasting her anger and defiance.
She tries again, muscles in her arms straining as she pulls. But that camera is made to survive car crashes and explosions. It’s not going anywhere.
I smirk.
Her eyes narrow, that cold blue turning to ice. She leans in close, her face filling the screen.
“I will find a way to destroy you,” she hisses.
