Page 81 of Tainted Love

“I love you, Lucy Vaughn.”

Her eyes flutter and her lips curl. “More than a good kill?”

She’s joking, of course, but it’s a fair question.

Before Lucy, there was no better feeling than marking a hit off my list. I’d start to twitch for that endorphin rush if I went too long without taking a life.

An itchy trigger finger is bad for business.

Mercer told me that after he recruited me into Snake Eyes. It’s why he sent me out here to infiltrate the Zappia family. There’s no shortage of people who need killing in the mob business. I’d be right at home there and I was — for a time.

The last thing I ever expected to find in the midst of bloodshed was a way out of it.

“Yes,” I finally answer, brushing my lips against hers.

“I love you, too,” she hums. Her lips press against mine and a chuckle escapes her throat. “I’ll have to get back to you on whether or not it’s more than a good kill.”

I smile. In all this chaos, Lucy hasn’t lost her warm wit and sense of humor.

She’ll need it.

But I can’t let her go through with it.

She wants to feel secure in her own body again. I won’t deny her that. I’ll teach her how to defend herself and how to build strength and how to use the strength of others against them. I’ll do that no questions asked, but I won’t let her spiral out of control.

Marty Zappia will pay for what he’s done. I’ll make sure of that.

But it won’t be her.

I won’t let her bear that weight.

I pull her in closer, holding on to her so tight I can feel her heart beating against her ribs. Her fingers run down my body, sliding across my scars like a piano man tickles his keys. She takes my cock in her hand and guides it back inside her willing warmth, clenching her tightness around me because she knows I like it. I grunt with pleasure and she raises her left leg to hook over my shoulder. I push deeper inside, every inch slicker and warmer than the last.

“Fuck me, Dante,” she begs, submitting herself to me.

I hug her little body against mine, relishing in her flexibility as I round her onto her back and take her quickly against the bed. Her tightness never ceases as I pump away at her. Moans escape her and her eyes flutter closed. Her body feels as good as it always has, even better than I ever imagined it would be the moment I saw her photo.

It’s hard to believe that I’ve only known her for two months. Just two months out of nearly thirty years in this world. I’ve met thousands of people. A few became friends, even fewer became lovers. A lot more than them became kills. But only one defined who I was and gave me a purpose.

Lucy Vaughn. The foul-mouthed dancer from Chicago.

She cries out one final time. Her back arches and her legs twitch with release. I watch her face as it contorts and her teeth drag across her lips. Perfection personified.

I thrust deep inside, feeling my own climax take hold of me and she watches me come just as I watched her. I growl through clenched teeth as every muscle flexes to bring me down. My skin is on fire and my joints swell. I feel her hands on me, traveling up my abs and arms to hook behind my neck and guide me down to her humming lips.

I kiss her until I can’t anymore, until my body fights for rest and my vision fades.

* * *

I sleep like a damn baby.

When I wake up, she’s gone.

There isn’t a sound in the whole house. I can’t sense her feet shuffling across the old floorboards or her crutch tapping along beside her. She’s gotten pretty good at hobbling from room-to-room without me, but I still get nervous with her on the stairs and she’s always — always — lying next to me when I wake up.

But not this morning.

“Lucy?”

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