Page 89 of The Enemy Protector
His shirt is still draped on the chair. I realize I have no clothes except for my wedding dress. I’m not interested in seeing my things in his space. Not yet. That is going to require some getting used to. That is confirmation that my life as I knew it is over. It almost feels like admitting defeat. I’m not ready to do that.
I pull on the shirt. It falls to mid-thigh, which is fine. Practical. The fact that it smells like him is annoying and awesome in equal measure.
I find my way to the bathroom and freeze.
I stand in the doorway taking inventory. Marble tile, matte black fixtures, a double vanity that's ruthlessly clean. On one side, there is a bottle of cologne, a razor, and a mouthwash. I pick up the cologne—no label I recognize, which means custom. I put it back exactly where I found it.
And then my eyes are drawn to the assortment of products in a pretty basket on the other side of the vanity.
“What the hell?” I murmur.
It’s all my favorites. The hand soap I love that is foamy and smells like mint. Matching lotion. I jerk open the drawer and find my night cream, a box of the face masks I use and every other thing packed into my bathroom at home.
Except these aren’t mine. They’re all new. Same products.
How?
When?
It’s like he’s been planning this moment.
The question I’m afraid to consider is how long.
I shake off the unease. I’ve never shared a space with anyone. Definitely not a man. It’s unsettling. And intimate.
I sigh and take in the rest of the massive bathroom.
The tub is obscene.
Freestanding, deep enough to disappear into, with a view of the small backyard if you want it. I stand at the edge of it for a moment and let myself imagine it. Hot water. Quiet. No one trying to kill me.
I take advantage of the toiletries before heading out in search of coffee. I didn’t get the official tour, but I’ve been in brownstones before—tall and narrow. The kitchen is always on the ground floor.
I walk down the dark-paneled hall that is devoid of any art, which makes me think the piece in his room is special.
I follow the rich aroma of good coffee. Unlike the second floor, the bottom floor is flooded with natural light. Still plenty of dark features, but the back of the house opens to the backyard.
And then I’m in the kitchen.
He's at the island. Wall Street Journal, actual print, in hand. A coffee mug in the other. He doesn't look up. I notice he’s dressed in slacks and a black button down with the top three buttons undone. His hair is perfectly styled.
How long has he been awake?
There's a French press waiting. And next to it, a small bottle of chocolate creamer. The kind I like. Not a brand that makes any sense in this kitchen. My specific creamer, the one my trainer would lecture me about but I refused to give it up.
I pour a cup and add the creamer and drink it standing up. My eyes move around the very large and beautiful kitchen with a breakfast nook in the far corner. Black appliances, white counters and dark cabinets give the place a very modern but comfortable look. The island could easily seat eight people.
There’s no awkward tension, which I expected. He saw me naked. And I saw him in all his glory.
And I hate that I want another look.
I steal a look. His strong hands. Those fingers that had been inside me. Pleasuring me.
No.
Do not go there.
Sergei sets the paper down, gets up and moves to the refrigerator. I watch him pull out eggs, butter and what looks like fresh herbs. He moves around his kitchen like he does it all the time.
