Page 15 of The Hitman

I’m sure that sounds bitter and fake, but it’s not. Ryan made me blush and giggle, and he made me feel small in his huge contractually-muscled arms. But so fucking turned on, I start sweating just looking at him? Never.

I don’t know what the fuck is up with this man and his tiny swim trunks, but he’s doing it for me. Big time. He’s even sexier than yesterday, and I can’t look away.

Okay, never mind, that’s a lie. I know exactly what’s working for me. I love the way his thick, wet, jet black hair looks slicked back on his head. The way the downy soft five o’clock shadow makes his jaw looker sharper. It makes him look dangerous, like really dangerous, not movie star dangerous. And I love the contrast of all that dark hair across his lightly tanned skin.

The rim of the wine glass hits my lips just as he climbs out of the pool slowly, walking up the stairs as if he knows each water droplet dripping from the thick, dark hair covering his chest and abdomen and legs and arms makes my pussy ache. I wonder how all that hair would feel against my naked skin.

Ryan’s waxed smooth, and I never told him, but I actually hated it. I love a hairy man, and this shameless whore in front of me is picture-perfect. Also, those tiny ass swim trunks he’s wearing don’t cover any of it. Hell, it’s barely covering his rigid length.

No complaints. I’m drenched, and I don’t just mean my skin.

He grabs a towel from a stand near the pool and doesn’t even pretend to dry off. Instead, he throws it over his shoulders and struts around the perimeter of the pool. I take my time sipping the glass of wine in my hand, watching him from behind the big, dark lenses of my glasses, thankful that the pool area is mostly empty, and no one can see just exactly what I’m staring at or how hard.

Okay, I’m a little preoccupied and realize my miscalculation too late. I think no one can see me. I’m wrong. I’m so lost watching the gentle sway of his hips that I don’t realize he’s headed my way until his dripping body is standing at the foot of my deck chair. Actually, I don’t realize that soon enough; I’m too busy licking the rim of my wine glass as I try to visualize every ridge and vein on his penis.

“Do you like what you see, tesora?” he asks in the sexiest Italian accented English I’ve ever heard, with the cockiest grin any man has ever had the audacity to muster.

Busted. I should be embarrassed, but I’m half a fresh bottle of expensive wine in, so I’m not.

I lift my head — making sure that I take in the hairy, tanned expanse of his chest as I do, because why the fuck wouldn’t I? — and then make eye contact with him through my dark lenses.

There’s a small tendril of wet hair falling across his forehead, a single droplet of water hanging from the end. It’s sexier than every artificially sexy scene in every one of Ryan’s movies I’ve been forced to endure and secretly hate.

“Do you like what you see?” he asks again.

He can’t see, but I roll my eyes. Zoe always told me that men are much more attractive right before they speak, and this is one more thing about which she was always right.

I pull my glasses down the bridge of my nose like yesterday and roll my eyes at him again. I don’t want him to miss the annoyance on my face. “You’re blocking my light again.”

My mouth is dry. I’m almost certainly dehydrated again, but also, he’s Sexy. As. Fuck. And that’s not helping my dry mouth either.

“That wasn’t the question,” he says with a smile.

Jesus. No man should be able to make a complete stranger wet with just a smile, but this stranger does. He can.

I am. Wet, that is, just in case it’s unclear. My eyes move down his body again. I can’t help myself. I blame the alcohol and also the fact that Ryan and I haven’t had regular sex in three months. I hadn’t felt strong enough to tell Shae that on the day of my Not Wedding, but it’s true. How could I admit to anyone — even my cousin — that the man who’d convinced me that all the training he was doing for his next movie was fucking up his libido had actually been perfectly fine to fuck my best friend and a stripper? I couldn’t, so I hadn’t. I’d ignored my unmet needs then, but my body refuses to ignore them now as, I swear to God, his dick flexes inside his trunks as I watch.

My eyes fly up to his face. The answer he wants is hell fucking yes, I like what I see. He’s not going to get it, though. I push my glasses back up the bridge of my nose and tip my head back to rest against the chair. He can’t see my eyes, so I don’t close them, but I do look away. I have to. All that fucking chest hair? I want to rub myself against him, and if I keep looking at him, I just might.

And he knows it. I don’t have to wonder anymore. I know that he knows that I like what I see by the soft burr of laughter that rumbles in his chest.

I scowl but refuse to look directly at him. I don’t trust myself.

He’s watching me as intently as I’m watching him, the only difference is that he’s not trying to hide it or pretend it’s anything besides naked lust.

And unfortunately, my traitorous nipples return the greeting his dick gave me just a bit ago, hardening to painful points against the fabric of my thin swimsuit.

He smiles at my chest and licks his lips. “I like what I see,” he tells me.

“I didn’t ask you that,” I hiss. I can hear the strain in my voice.

He laughs again, watching me and not leaving.

I need him to leave. I need to leave before I embarrass myself.

Too late.

I rub my thighs together the tiniest bit. I just need the friction to take the pressure off my throbbing clit. I need something to calm my hormones and my pulse.

---