Page 40 of Turmoil's Target

Why do I crave more than just her sinful curves and wicked mouth?

I shove the traitorous thoughts aside.

Don’t be a pussy, Turmoil.

You’re not built for more, and this is an undercover op for the club.

This couldn’t be more even if I wanted it to be.

We lay tangled together, heartbeats slowly returning to normal as the sweat cools on our skin.

Sera’s slim fingers trail over the ink adorning my bicep, tracing the intricate Aztec patterns.

The simple touch ignites fresh sparks of desire, but I tame it down.

Fuck, I need to at least give the girl a minute to recover.

After a stretch of easy silence, Sera sits up abruptly, running a hand through her tousled golden-brown locks. “All right, up you get. I’m going to make us a proper breakfast.”

She slides out of bed, all long limbs and luscious curves, and saunters over to her wardrobe.

I prop myself up on my elbows, unabashedly admiring the view as she slips into a short silk robe the color of ripe cherries.

It clings to her figure, hinting at the delights underneath.

Noticing my appreciative gaze, Sera smirks and tosses my boxers at my face. “Eyes up here, Casanova. Kitchen, five minutes. Don’t keep me waiting.”

I flash her a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

She rolls her stunning slate eyes and glides out of the bedroom, the scent of her perfume lingering behind her.

Shaking my head with a grin, I haul myself out of the tangled sheets and tug on my underwear.

This woman will be the death of me, I swear.

I find Sera in the penthouse’s massive chef’s kitchen, already pulling ingredients from the gleaming Sub-Zero fridge.

The space is all sleek lines and top-of-the-line appliances, fit for a fucking Food Network show.

I stop in the entryway, leaning a shoulder against the wall and drinking in the sight of her puttering around in front of the stove.

Domestic goddess is a good look on her.

Sera throws a cheeky glance at me over her shoulder as she sets a frying pan on the gas range. “You gonna stand there gawking all day or you gonna make yourself useful, hotshot?”

“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to cook. I’m just here to provide the eye candy.” I cross to her side and peer at the array of foods spread across the granite countertop. Eggs, sausages, beans, mushrooms, tomatoes... “Damn, princess, you preparingfor the apocalypse or something? There’s enough here to feed an army.”

“It’s called a full English, you uncultured swine.” She bumps me with her hip, a playful glint in her eyes. “And I’ll have you know it's the breakfast of champions. Figured you could use a hearty meal after our little cardio session.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it?” I loop an arm around her waist and nuzzle her neck, nipping at the tender skin below her ear. “In that case, I wouldn’t mind seconds... or thirds...”

She shivers, head falling back on a breathy sigh, before swatting at me with a dishtowel. “Behave yourself or no breakfast for you!”

“Fine, fine, I’ll be good.” Holding my hands up in surrender, I put some distance between us and lean back against the kitchen island. “Gotta say though, I wouldn’t have pegged you as the domestic type.”

“I’m full of surprises.” Her lips quirk as she expertly cracks eggs into the pan one-handed. “Contrary to what you might think, I’m not just a spoiled girl. I happen to enjoy cooking. Picked up a few tricks from our family chef growing up.”

Huh. Guess there are hidden depths to Seraphina Bernard.

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