Primal Pursuit

“Arabbit.”

She’s stripped. Naked. And I take a moment to drink her in. Her confidence in her own skin is sexy as fuck, and I’m contemplating whether keeping her hostage and naked here in my place is an option. One that won’t get me killed or murdered in my sleep.

I put my gun away, leave my wallet and keys by the door, and add her shit to the pile. I take off my coat and vest, dropping them on the couch as I take her hand.

It’s only when we get to the bathroom so I can run her a shower that she frowns, fingers lightly touching the cut and blood on my chest through my now ruined shirt.

“I’m fine.”

I should ask if she is, but I can see she is, and reading body language is a skill integral to my job. It helps with close contact, even when I’m observing and about to pull a trigger from a distance.

Rabbit is fucking beyond fascinating.

I open a drawer in the vanity, pull out a flashlight with a special filter, and turn out the light.

“What are you?—”

“Turn, Rabbit.” I don’t wait. I spin her and shine the light on her ass. “Your tattoo.”

She looks over her shoulder into the mirror. “A bunny?It’s…beautiful. And it’s lavender!”

This is the most girly I’ve heard her, and I almost start laughing.

I turn off the flashlight and turn on the light again. “Yeah, just for you. Shower. I’m fucking starved.” And I leave her to it.

When she’s done, I’m in the kitchen and she wanders in, naked, glorious with towel dried hair.

“Fuck. That.” I stalk off to my room and come out with a button down and throw it to her. “Put this on.”

“Why? It’s not like you haven’t seen me naked before.”

“You’re naked and shiny, and a little too close to jailbait in looks.”

And she’s getting me hard. Again. Clothed makes me feel like the right kind of pervert, not the wrong kind, but the word of the fucking day is pervert. I could have gotten her a t-shirt, sweats. But I got her a button down.

Hotter.

Perverted.

Fucking rabbit.

I actually am hungry, so I point her at the wet bar in the living room area of the open plan space. “Whiskey.”

She pads over barefoot, and I open the fridge as she does.

I bought steak the other day, so I get that out. Along with salad fixings. Something simple. Good.

She comes back, watching, and I butter the cast iron skillet, adding some oil to bring up the heat when I’m ready to light the burner. I season the steak and allow it to come to room temperature as I start prepping the salad.

I use champagne vinegar, extra virgin olive oil, and thyme for the dressing, and she’s watching me, avidly, drinking something purple. I have no idea what it is.

“It’s gin.”

She reads minds now? “I have gin?”

“It’s colored.”

“So I see.”