Page 11 of Claimed By the Hitman: Codename Cupid

He pours cum down my throat.

I kick my feet and welcome it, moaning onto his cock.

As soon as he’s done groaning and pumping into me, I gasp and slap his thigh so hard he bucks. “Now, get out.”

“Is that an order?”

“If it gets you to move.” I leap up and throw him his pants. “Yes.” He watches me lick my lips; I savor the salty taste that lingers on them.

Cupid rolls out of bed, laughing as he gets dressed. I ripped his stitches open last night while I was… riding. No time to fix him up. He’ll be fine; besides, he’s the one who fucking stabbed himself.

“Let’s meet later,” he says, buttoning up his shirt.

I’m already throwing clothes into my suitcase. I unload the Glock and hide it in the floor panel where Olympia had hidden it for me. “No. I’m taking the next flight back to the States. This shouldn’t have happened, Cupid. And if I stay, I can’t ensure it won’t happen again.”

“Enjoyed yourself, did you?”

His stupid accent crests as one thing and crashes as another. It soothes me like a sedative—it’s dangerous.

I look him in those mischievous eyes and smile. “You know I did.”

“When will I see you again?”

“Our next assignment. You did well, Cupid. Olympia will be happy that we’re a good match.”

“Better thangood.” He steps toward me, running his teeth over his lip. “They’ve been worried about me, haven’t they? I’m out of control.”

“I can’t speak to that,” I shudder as he lifts my chin. “But,yes.You’re clearly out of control.”

“It’s because ofyou.”

“Not according to Olympia,” I whisper a breath away from his lips. “You’ve been spiraling for some time.” For whatever reason, I ask something I shouldn’t ask. “What’s been going on with you, Cupid? What’s wrong?”

He pauses.

Just like when he grabbed me at the café, his demeanor changes and something in him slips. His lower lip bounces erratically before he speaks, “Nothing. They’ve just never sent a handler that can actually handle me.”

“Is that what I’ve done? Handled you?”

“Careful,” he hums. “You’re turning me on again.”

We kiss like we shouldn’t.

And if we’re smart, it’ll be for the last time.

Stateside again, but I feel like I left something in Paris. My heart? How cliché.

This isn't like me—I don't get hung up on one-night stands. Is it still a one-night stand after what we did the next morning? What happened between Cupid and me can be nothing more than that. A one-off. An admittedly amazing night that can never be repeated.

He's all I could think about the entire flight over the Atlantic.

Even now, as I march out of the terminal in Raleigh International, I find myself looking for him in the crowd. I hope that he's watching me with those trickster eyes.

Someone is watching me.

We're trained to pick up on these things—people that look too regular, heads turning just as you look at them, someone trailing you even as you take a roundabout path—and all my senses are alerting me to danger.

It's not Cupid.

---