Page 100 of Lady and the Hitman
“You’re still mad at me,” I said softly.
“I’m not mad,” he said, taking a long sip. “I’m … possessive. There’s a difference.”
My stomach flipped. “You’re also patient, remember? That’s what you told me.”
“I lied.”
I laughed, more breath than sound, and turned back to the stove to plate the second steak. But before I could reach for it, his arms were around me. Strong. Sure. Wrapping around my waist like a vise.
His chest pressed to my back, mouth at my ear.
“You didn’t have to cook for me to fix this,” he said quietly.
“I wanted to.”
He breathed me in like I was the meal now, the muscles of his forearms flexing where they crossed over my stomach. “I’m not used to wanting someone like this.”
I reached down, laced my fingers through his. “Same.”
He pressed a kiss to the side of my neck. Then another. Slower. Hotter. The wine in his hand tilted against my arm, the glass still warm from his grip.
“Dinner’s going to get cold,” I whispered.
“So will I,” he murmured. “And that would be a fucking tragedy.”
I turned in his arms, hands flat against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my palms. “Sit down,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Let me feed you.”
He stared at me like I was asking for the moon. Then, slowly, he stepped back.
I brought the plates to the wide island, and we sat across from each other, knees brushing under the counter. The food was good—maybe even great—but I barely tasted it. Not with the way his eyes tracked every move I made. Not with the heat of his gaze following every slow sip of wine, every lick of garlic butter from my finger, every breath.
“I could get used to this,” he said after a long stretch of quiet.
“What, steak?”
“No.” His eyes burned hotter. “You. Here.”
I looked down at my plate.
“Zara,” he said, voice rougher now, “you don’t have to be afraid of what this could be.”
“I’m not afraid of us,” I said, meeting his gaze. “I’m afraid of what the world will do with us.”
He reached across the counter, hooked a finger under the bracelet still glinting on my wrist. “Let them try.”
The rest of the wine disappeared too fast. The plates were pushed aside. And when I stood to clear them, he followed.
His hand closed around my wrist as I reached for his glass.
“Leave it,” he said.
The words were simple. But the look in his eyes?
That was a promise.
He backed me up to the counter, his mouth claiming mine before I could catch my breath. It wasn’t wild. It wasn’t rough.
It was slow.
