Freddie Bianchi and Juliette Dupont are polar opposites.
She's hot, he's cold. She makes jokes, he takes them to heart. He's only an inch taller than her, and she makes fun of him ever chance she gets.
He calls her a dumb blonde, and albeit she's he...
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With hair the colour of early morning strands, fluttering between sheer white curtains, she lay on the couch. Her black sweater was bunched up at her waist yet she made no move to push it down, her taut stomach provoking me as I sat at the far desk, trying my hardest to focus on the mission stats but whenever she moved or sighed, my attention was desperately pulled away from the papers and put onto her.
She wore short silk shorts, ones that were tight around her wide hips, causing the fabric to stretch and flex across her round, perky ass.
God. Fucking. Damnit.
I peeled my eyes away from the sleeping woman and to the coffee she made earlier. I was about hundred percent sure she had poisoned it.
Albeit I wouldn't have protested, because death by the hands of Juliette Dupont was the preferred way to go.
I brought it to my lips and took a sip, the perfect balance of coffee and sugar landed on my tongue and I couldn't help the satisfied groan that bubbled from my throat.
Juliette and I have lived together for the past two days.
Two days of fucking hell.
She was bubbly and annoying. She never stopped humming the same fucking tune. She'd stop, then start again and sometimes, she'd even whistle it. I mentally congratulated myself for not staying at her apartment for more than a few hours at a time. My head would've exploded.
Also, we haven't had sex in a week.
She made it so fucking hard not to just slip into her randomly. She lived in shorts, only switching them out for sweats if she had to go outside. And she'd walk into the bathroom without knocking and then she'd tell me that we were short on coffee and tea whilst I was painfully hard at her exposed skin.
But at night, it was worse. So much worse.
I slept on the couch, and I could hear her from the bedroom. Groans, whimpers, pants. Sometimes my name, sometimes a colourful string of swear words. But she'd never finish; she'd never come. I knew that because I'd hear a groan and then the noises would stop, and then the sound of footsteps would travel all around thee second floor.
She was restless.
Poor thing.
The terrorist group were nowhere to be found. We knew they were in Boston, but every trail was a dead end. Both of our teams found nothing on the whereabouts of The Archer's, and everyone was annoyed and Juliette wanted to go home, but I was content with everything.
Because I was alone. Without New York City smoke in my lungs. The cold was a disadvantage for me, but I was inside most of the time, either sitting by the fire or taking a steaming shower.
Juliette was messy.
She hated washing dishes.
She didn't like olives and she's allergic to gluten.
