Page 60 of The Gentleman

Keep your head straight.

He reached for the bread knife as water for the coffee boiled. The compartmentalization that had kept him alive through countless missions was failing. For the first time in his operational life, he couldn’t separate the professional from the personal.

The line he’d drawn between duty and desire hadn’t just blurred—it had shattered beneath her fingertips.

The blade sliced through the crust with a satisfying crackle. He cut four even slices, then placed them on white plates he hadn’t used since purchasing them. His hands assembled the food while his mind circled back to her—always to her.

Kat.

He arranged the food on a wooden tray, adding a carafe of fresh coffee and two matching cups. Another item, never used.

He lifted the tray and headed toward the bedroom. He stopped at the threshold, tray balanced in his hands. From here, he could see her silhouette under the sheets, her dark hair on hispillow. Her hand rested in the space where his body had been, as if seeking his warmth even in sleep.

This wasn’t just sex or adrenaline or proximity born of shared danger. This was Kat—in his bed, in his life, in every guarded corner of his heart.

He should step back. Wake her gently, share breakfast, then find reasons to maintain distance. It would be kinder.

Her eyes opened, finding him in the doorway as if she’d sensed his retreat. The moment she looked at him, wrapped in his sheets, his resolve crumbled.

“You made breakfast.” Sleep still tinged her voice.

He crossed the room, placed the tray on the dresser. “Seemed like the least I could do after keeping you up half the night.”

“Keeping me up?” A smile played at her lips. “I recall being a willing participant.”

“More than willing.” His voice dropped, rough with memory. “You were...”

He paused, searching for words that wouldn’t cheapen what they’d shared.

“What?” she prompted softly.

“Perfect.” The word came out raw and unguarded. “You were perfect, Kat.”

“You too, Leonid.”

He sat down on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. Morning light filtered through the blinds, painting golden stripes across her skin. He reached for her, fingers tracing the line of her jaw. Her skin was warm, her pulse faster.

“I brought you breakfast, but suddenly I’m ravenous for something else entirely.”

Her lips parted, her small intake of breath audible in the quiet room. He leaned in, fingers threading into her hair—still strange and wonderful in its new darkness—and kissedher. Gentler than last night’s desperate passion, but no less consuming.

The sheet slipped as she rose to meet him, raising goosebumps he wanted to chase with his mouth. He traced the smooth curve of her shoulder with his thumb, marveling at the contrast between his darker skin and her paleness.

Too much English rain. He’d fix that—inch by inch, kiss by kiss.

“Leonid.” Her breath hitched against his lips, her hand sliding to his shoulder, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

It took everything he had to hold himself in check. “This changes everything.”

“I know.” She traced his scar with a tenderness that made his chest ache. “I’ve built my entire career on avoiding complications. But you’re the one complication I can’t seem to live without.”

He hadn’t meant to touch her again. Not this soon. Not after everything last night. He’d woken early, made her food, tried to be good.

Normal.

But then she looked at him and all his restraint scattered like dust.

He lowered her back against the pillows, his body covering hers, feeling the heat of her through the thin barrier of the sheet. Her hands slid slow over his back, fingertips catching on every ridge of scar tissue like she was memorizing him.

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