Well, hell.
It tasted good.
That took chops, making an egg white omelet taste good.
“How long?”
“Full term.”
“Did you, uh…see some action?”
Mo turned his head to her, got a load of legs, nightie,tits, hair and a pretty face with a hesitant and earnest expression on it.
And he’d had enough.
More than enough.
He wasn’t playing this game and it was seriously fucked upshe was trying to make him do that.
He was done.
“We’re notdoin’ this,” heannounced.
“Mo—”
“No,” he clipped.“And rules.You put some goddamn clotheson while I’m with you.I know this is an inconvenience and you know I’mgettin’ paid to do this job.But have some respect and cuta man some slack.You know precisely how fuckable you are.Every night, youdance, and you got a huge room full of men gagging for it.Do you honestly needthat in your kitchen?”
The look on her face made him wish he could net the wordsthat just came out of his mouth and set them on fire.
She blanked it right before she retorted, “I think I preferQuiet Mo.”
“Great.I prefer that too.So let’s do that.”
“Fine,” she spat.
He dipped his chin.
She picked up her plate and took it to the apron-front sinkwhich was two feet in front of him.She then dumped the whole thing in it,hardly eaten omelet and the rest sliding off onto the white enamel.
“I’mgonnatake a shower,” shedeclared.“I suppose, cutting you some slack, you don’t need to be around forthat?”
“No,” he ground out.
“Awesome,” she snapped.
And then she marched out of the room, every muscle in herbody screaming she was pissed off.
Or hurt.
Fantastic.
Mo drew in another breath through his nose.
Then he finished his breakfast and cleaned the kitchen.
Chapter Five
Trading Up
