Page 42 of The Hitman

I smooth my skirt over my thighs again, lock my knees together, and cross my ankles, but once again, Giulio intervenes.

He pulls my legs apart at the knees, and I swallow a shocked, aroused gasp. We both watch as his index finger circles each of my kneecaps and then moves up my right thigh. When he reaches the hem of my skirt, he plays with the fabric, teasing me.

“Someone might see,” I pant.

“Si, that’s the point, tesora. That’s your reward.” As he says these words, his hand slips under my skirt. He massages each of my thighs slowly, clenching and relaxing his hand, pressing into muscles I hadn’t realized were tired and sore. Actually, now that I think about it, my entire body has been wound tight for hours, ever since I ran into that armed man in the vineyard. Feeling those aching muscles allows me to let my body relax and lean back into Giulio.

“Better?” he asks, his mouth brushing against my cheek as he speaks.

“Yes.”

“Tell me when to stop,” he says, pushing my thighs apart. His other hand settles against the small of my back for a moment, and I relax just a bit more.

His hand moves down my back to my butt. I feel him start to pull my skirt up. My eyes dart down the train car as I shift from side to side on his lap, helping him expose my body. He grunts when my weight shifts on the erection that feels much harder now. When my skirt is free, he places his hand on my bare back. His fingers dip into the back of my underwear, toying with me.

“You aren’t worried someone will see, and we’ll get kicked off of the train?” I ask, gulping as his hands massage my thighs and back, and my temperature rises.

“I couldn’t care about anything less right now. There’s a condom in my jacket pocket. Get it.”

I swallow a whimper.

There’s a moment of hesitation between us, as I’m thinking, and he’s giving me the space to think. Is this what I wanted? Is this what I was asking for? He keeps massaging me.

I haven’t been with anyone besides Ryan in nearly a decade. I’m clearly mourning the end of two relationships, not just one. I just saw a man die in front of me. That man aimed a gun at my face. I’m letting this stranger take me to places unknown. I don’t have my cell phone, so I can’t even call for help. I’m 100% sober. My clit is throbbing.

My hands are shaking as I turn and push his coat open, searching for the pocket at his chest. I feel the square wrapper through the linen pocket and dip two fingers inside to pull it out.

“Are you sure?” he whispers, touching me lightly, unhurriedly, no pressure.

To be honest, I wasn’t until he asked me. “Yes.”

I feel the loss of his hand between my legs and frown.

He takes the condom from my hands and shifts me onto his thighs. He unzips his pants and pulls out his erection. I use my body to block him as best I can. Giulio doesn’t care; he doesn’t even seem to notice that we’re so exposed, even in our small alcove.

When the condom is in place, his hands circle my waist again, and he lifts me back onto his lap as if I weigh nothing, turning me so that my back is resting against his chest. I lock my knees together. Instead of his erection underneath me, I feel the length of him up the small of my back. I reach around to grab him at the head.

He groans before grabbing my wrist and pulling my hand away. I whimper again.

“You haven’t earned that yet,” he tells me.

I’m not sure if those words should be sexy, but they are. “Tell me how to earn it.”

“Sei troppo tesora per essere vero,” he says to me.

“Non parlo Italiano,” I remind him.

“Si,” he says, but doesn’t translate. “Spread your legs.”

I do as he says without a second of hesitation this time, propping one foot onto the empty chair next to us.

He’s still holding my wrist behind my back. His free hand goes to my thigh. He starts caressing and massaging my muscles again as he moves slowly up my thigh.

I watch as his hand disappears under my skirt, and I lay myself over him, my entire body open not just to him but to this experience and, incidentally, anyone who happens past. I shiver when his other hand gently cups my sex.

His mouth moves to my ear again. Has any man ever spent this much time whispering filthy things into my ear?

“Tell me when to stop,” he says, and then peels my panties aside. I hold my breath. He traces his fingers up and down my lips, grazing over my clit. His touch is too light to get me off, but enough to make me moan and shudder.

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