Page 116 of Lady and the Hitman
I couldn’t.
He knew I couldn’t.
My hips shifted, chasing his hand. Chasing pressure. Chasing him.
His fingers found the edge of my panties, slipping beneath, and I gasped—sharp and quiet and entirely involuntary—as he traced slow, deliberate circles over the most sensitive part of me. I was already wet. Already aching.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he breathed, reverent and raw, like he didn’t quite believe I was real. His mouth found the hollow just beneath my jaw, tongue flicking, teeth scraping. I trembled, my knees going soft.
The alley was empty, but the world beyond it wasn’t. The distant sounds of Savannah—laughter, clinking glasses, footsteps on stone—felt impossibly far away and far too close.
“I can’t—someone might?—”
“Let them,” he said, voice low and deadly and full of possession. “Let them see who you belong to.”
I didn’t mean to moan. It just happened.
His mouth caught it, swallowing the sound as his fingers slid inside me with devastating control. My body jolted, clenching around him, my hands fisting in his shirt.
He didn’t rush. He set a rhythm—steady, knowing. Like he had all the time in the world to undo me in this alley and wasn’t worried about getting caught because no one would dare interrupt.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
I did.
And what I saw broke me open.
His eyes were blown wide with want, with hunger, with something dangerously close to worship.
“That’s it,” he said, his voice a growl in my ear. “Come for me.”
And I did.
Because how could I not?
How could I fight it when this man—this terrifying, impossible man—had wrapped himself around my senses and rewired every single one?
It was madness.
Complete, reckless madness to be this far gone over someone like Ronan Hale.
I was a grown woman. Educated. Accomplished. Known. I wrote about presidents and policy and power structures for a living—and now I was melting in an alley in Savannah while a man with secrets in his eyes made me come with nothing but his fingers and a command.
But being with him …
It was everything.
The world had always demanded so much of me. Be smart. Be principled. Be appropriate. Even when I rebelled, it had been calculated. Controlled.
Nothing like this.
Nothing like him.
He didn’t just make me feel wanted. He made me feel real. Physical. Primal. Like I wasn’t a brain in a blazer, but a woman made of heat and hunger, of pleasure and pulse.
And the way he looked at me—like I was his to ruin and worship in equal measure—it didn’t scare me.
It thrilled me.
