“There’s a shortage of perfect breasts in this world. It would be a pity to damage yours.”
Searing coffee drenches down the button down shirt, and her mouth opens in a pained gasp. The hot mug is immediately slammed on the counter with a clutter and a beige puddle pools below. What. The. Fuck. Who fucking left the rug bunched up in neat freak’s kitchen? Who fucking dared?
Her teeth clench in a mild growl while her smooth hands work at the white buttons, revealing tanned skin; glossy and wet. This would be well and fine to partly flash an absent room had their not been a crow perched further in.
Devil eyes always staring, always observing.
Unnoticed by her, Marie’s index finger brushes over the bump of pink irritated flesh. It’s a small wound, and it stings at the touch but she’ll live quite obviously. A moment of french curses slipping out–then the bastard speaks.
And Marie spins the other direction, stalking in the kitchen in a start. “Oh you’re so full of it.”
If he wasn’t a stealthy man. She’d hit him.