Yet here I was, and I was falling into the role easily, and worse, I was enjoying it.
Enjoying him.
“Something smells delicious.”
I smiled at the sound of his deep, melodic voice, but it was only when I had cleared the expression off my face as best I could that I turned to look at him. It was silly I didn’t want him to see how happy I was he was here, but I felt shy now, vulnerable, and felt an urgent need to try to protect myself, even if only from the emotions that crashed through me.
The sunlight filtering through the French doors hit him and illuminated him. He looked amazing as he had every time I’d seen him, and my breath again hitched.
I blinked and looked away quickly and went back to cutting toast on the diagonal.
Though I didn’t look, I still listened to the sound of his approaching footsteps, the uncharacteristic loafers he wore banging against the hardwood floor.
“I love toast,” he said as he took the plate I held from my grasp. “Bacon! Eggs! Awesome,” he said.
Then he looked to me, his brown eyes dancing with delight.
“You made this for me?” he asked.
I nodded faintly, his enthusiasm for something so small as breakfast making me blush. That blush deepened when I caught his eye, saw the way he looked at me like I was breakfast. He sat the plate down quickly and then brushed his lips against mine, soft at first, then harder. I opened to his touch, had reached up to curl my fingers in the hair at the base of his neck before I could blink.
He slipped his tongue between my lips, kissed me until I was breathless. Then he broke the kiss and stared down at me.
“I can’t remember the last time I had breakfast like this,” he said with a wicked smile. “Thanks!”
He smacked a wet kiss against my cheek and then turned and walked toward the dining table, munching on a piece of bacon as he went.
How did he do that, go from passionate to playful in a moment, while I stood there, barely able to force breath out of my lungs and keep myself from begging him to fuck me right here?
I swallowed, turned away, and gripped the edge of the counter, trying to regain my balance, and listened as he ate happily.
“You gonna join me?” he asked between bites.
I shook my head. “No. I’m not hungry.”
“Then just sit with me,” he said.
My elation at those words, at the fact that he seemed to want my company was almost too much to contain, but I breathed deep and then turned, walked to the kitchen table, and sat, not realizing I’d chosen the chair closest to him until I was seated and not even remotely tempted to move.
We sat in silence, him eating, me watching. After a moment, I said tentatively, “Busy day?”
He didn’t even slow down. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
Not a helpful response, or an illuminating one, but I couldn’t quite think of a way to press the issue without being too aggressive. I had an inkling of what was happening today. This was a time of transition and his attire told me that today would mark the one where he introduced himself. A big day, a dangerous one, potentially, but not one he seemed willing to discuss with me.
So instead, I stayed quiet, continued to watch him.
“That was great,” he said a few minutes later after he’d dropped his fork.
“Thank you,” I said.
He pushed his chair back and then looked at me, assessing me openly. He started at my shoes and worked his way up my body to the top of my head and then back down.
I again felt that awareness under his gaze, wondering what he saw, trying to read his expression to figure it out at the same time as I remembered what it had been like to have him inside me.
I locked eyes with his.
“You look pretty,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said, my voice almost trembling, not nearly as strong as I wanted it to be. “You too.”
“Thanks,” he said, but his expression had changed again.
He went silent again for a moment and then stood. I followed suit and we faced each other, looked at one another awkwardly. We were close enough to touch and I couldn’t help but notice how tall he was. When my eyes clashed with his, my heart stuttered again, and I watched him, unsure of what to say next.
“Can I ask you a question?” he said. His voice wasn’t tentative. I didn’t think he was capable of that, but there was some question in it.
I nodded.
“How do I look?” he said.
I smiled. “Fishing for compliments, Sergei?”
He lifted one corner of his mouth. “No. Just looking for an opinion.”
I broke his gaze, ostensibly to look at his clothing but mostly because I needed some relief from the intensity of his stare.
I looked up again, letting my gaze rest on his jaw, which was smooth, freshly shaven, instead of meeting his eyes again. And as I waited, I weighed his question, weighed his words, tried to think of the response that he wanted to hear.