Gérard returned home, the door barely closing behind him before the rich, mouthwatering scent of food wrapped around him. He inhaled deeply, letting it fill his lungs but even that wasn't enough to steady him.
He hadn't been able to focus all day.
Not when every thought, every distraction, circled back to her.
To the way her breath came in soft, uneven pants after their training sessions. To the way those fitted training clothes clung to her body, her small, delicate frame, the tempting curve of her chest
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair.
Two weeks.
It had been two long, torturous weeks since he'd started training her. And every single morning felt like punishment watching her move like that, dressed like that, and not being able to touch her.
