Page 198 of Breeding Her: The Red Flag Edition
I watched her calf muscle tighten. Watched the line of her thighs flex and tremble.
It could’ve been a workout.
Some kind of girly fitness thing.
Or it was a goddamn seduction ritual.
Either way, I was fucked.
She swapped sides and lifted the other leg, inhaling slow and deep like this was some innocent stretch.
I edged a little closer to the doorway. Couldn’t help it.
Her belly was still frustratingly flat. No swell. No bump.
The sooner she started to show, the better—it’d be a fuck-you to every leering bastard within a ten-mile radius.
Men.
No.
Boys.
Horny little fuckboys on her campus who didn’t know she was already taken, bred, and ruined from the inside out.
She moved again.
Rolled over and pushed herself onto her hands and knees.
Then her ass shot up into the air.
Bent down.
Palms on the mat. Knees apart.
I took another step forward. Silent. Predatory.
The light grey Lycra was a fucking crime.
The way it disappeared between her cheeks made her look naked. It was devoured by the curve of her crack, stretched so tight I could see the outline of everything that belonged to me.
Every breath made her body shift, and her ass wobbled like an invitation.
My cock throbbed.
And still, she had the audacity to act like this was exercise.
This wasn’t yoga.
This was a war cry, and I was ready to answer.
I silently removed my T-shirt and dropped it on the floor.
Fucking her on the living room floor wasn’t ideal.
Neither was dragging me away from work mid-strategy review.
But this? This was a personal attack.
