Page 22 of Accidentally Kidnapping the Hitman

“Annie,” Dean mutters, tilting his head to kiss me deeper. His hands are in my hair, my bun undone. His body is rain-damp where it presses against mine. “Annie. Ah, you’re so fucking sweet. I could do this forever.”

“Bed,” I grit out, shoving at his shoulder. “Let’s go to bed.”

Dean’s laugh is smoky. “Yes, ma’am.”

The bathroom door creaks open, then I’m swept into Dean’s arms. My breathless shriek bounces off the tiles, and I wrap my arms around his neck as Dean carries me out into the narrow hallway. He’s so freaking strong, carrying me like I weigh less than that feather boa.

A girl could get used to this.

“S-second door on the left.”

Dean nuzzles my jaw as he walks. “Your place is cute as hell, Annie. Just like you.”

My blush burns all the way to my hairline. I shift in his arms, already slick and aching between my thighs.

My bedroom is small, with barely enough room for a double bed and two nightstands. When Dean places me reverently on the covers and flicks the bedside lamp on, I feel a pinch of self consciousness at how outsized he must feel right now—with the top of his head nearly dusting the ceiling, and his shoulders so broad that it was a squeeze through the doorway. If he takes a single step, he’ll bump his leg.

Seeing the fully grown Dean Kinnear in my bedroom is like seeing a panther in a kitty cage, but all my unease drains away when he peels off his wet t-shirt and tosses it to the rug. He grins at me, both hands slicking back his hair, then places one knee on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight.

Oh.

My.

God.

“You’re bright red, sweetheart.” My hit man is darkly delighted, leaning forward to trace one fingertip over my knee. It tickles through the thin fabric of my pants, and I gasp and shift, pressing my thighs together, desperate for more of his touch but trying not to beg. “Is that blush all for me?”

I nod, dazed.

Dean’s eyes glitter.

Then he crawls fully onto the mattress, backing me down to the bed. Dean covers the full length of my body with his—but still holds his weight up, keeping a few torturous inches of distance between us, even as he blocks out the rest of the world.

I whimper, arching up, but he’s too far away. Can’t reach those sculpted muscles, the heat of his skin, the silky dusting of dark chest hair—none of it. He’s holding back. Teasing me, his mouth twitching with humor.

Well, my hands are still free, so the joke’s on him. Lunging up, I flatten both palms to his hot, sturdy stomach and start roaming greedily.

Dean groans, letting his head hang like my touch is overwhelming. Hell, maybe it is.

We’ve both waited a long time for this. Too long.

“I used to watch your bedroom window at night.” My confession is hushed between us, spilling out as I stroke his abs, his chest, his arms. Dean is rigid beneath my touch, trembling with the effort of holding still. “Not that—I couldn’t see inside or anything. But I liked knowing that we were both awake late at night. I used to pretend you were thinking of me too.”

Dean shakes his head. “You weren’t pretending. You were right. I was always thinking of you, Annie, every minute of every fucking day.”

I suck in a breath. My lower belly pulses and twists into a needy knot.

“Then why didn’t you come knock on my door?”

Dean blows out a sigh—then at last, at long last, lowers down to his elbows and lets our bodies touch.

Heat.

Strength.

The safe cage of his arms.

Yes, please.

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