I lie back in bed on soft pillows, sleepy after a long day. My pink nightgown is rucked up to my hips as I read a book. My olive-toned thighs and calves show down to my pink toes, and I don't wear underwear. My long dark curls, damp from my bath, fan out on the white pillowcase.
I hear a noise and look up. A man stands in the doorway. He is of medium height, stocky, with broad shoulders. I don't scream. I don't make a sound. His blue eyes pierce my own brown ones. There is a jolt of connection, of knowing, even after two years. I did not expect to see him again.
Of course he can pick locks. He had been trained well in the service, as had I. I had last seen him in Turkey, his golden hair far lighter than it is now. His face was a mass of dark skin and freckles. Now it is fair.
I put down my book and fold my hands on my stomach, beneath my breasts. His eyes rake over those breasts, the nightgown's buttons are gaping open, barely covering my dark nipples. His eyes travel down the rest of me, drinking me in. I spread my legs a little, and hear his breath catch as he sees my pussy. I shaved in my bath before bed. Maybe a small part of me knew he would come. I take my fingers and use them to push my lips wide open, pink flesh waiting.
He rushes towards the bed and my instincts, my fighter's training, kicks in. He lands on me, pinning me down, and I hinge my legs around him and flip him so I am on top, staring down at him. My hands hold his wrists above his head, but my strength is no match for his. He pushes my hands off his wrist, grabs my nightgown and rips hard.
My breasts burst free, bouncing a little as I lean over him, grazing his face with my taught nipples. He's hard as a rock, tenting his cargo pants.
