Page 131 of Lady and the Hitman
I should’ve cared about the glass, about the distant hum of a drone or the glint of a lens in a nearby window. But I didn’t. Not when his fingers curled inside me, not when his mouth claimed mine, not when my body trembled under his touch. He knelt before me, tugging my panties down, and his lips found the sensitive skin of my inner thighs, kissing, licking, until I was shaking, my hands gripping the sofa’s edge to keep from collapsing.
His tongue was a revelation, hot and relentless, and I cried out, my voice carrying over the terrace, mingling with the city’s pulse. He worshipped me there, his hands gripping my hips, holding me steady as I unraveled, my climax crashing through me like a storm. My eyes fluttered open, catching the stars, the faint flicker of a flash in the distance—a camera, maybe, or just my imagination. It didn’t matter. Ronan was there, rising to his feet, his hands framing my face as he kissed me, letting me taste myself on his lips.
“I need you,” he said, voice rough with want, and I nodded, my hands fumbling with his belt, his zipper, desperate to feel him. He helped me, shoving his trousersdown just enough, and then he was lifting me again, pressing me against the glass, my legs wrapping around him as he entered me in one slow, deliberate thrust.
I gasped, my nails digging into his shoulders, the glass against my spine as he filled me, stretching me, claiming me. His movements were deep, controlled, each thrust a promise, a vow. “You’re mine,” he growled, his lips brushing my ear. “And I’ll keep you safe. Always.”
The city watched, its lights glinting like eyes, and I didn’t care. I moved with him, my hips meeting his, my body surrendering to the rhythm he set. His hands were everywhere—my hips, my breasts, my face—guiding me, cherishing me, as if I were the only thing that mattered in his world.
The pleasure built again, sharp and overwhelming, and when I came, it was with his name on my lips, my body shuddering against the glass.
Ronan followed, his own release a low groan against my throat, his arms tightening around me as if he’d never let go. We stayed like that for a moment, pressed against the glass, our breaths ragged, the city sprawling below us like a secret we’d never tell.
I’d waited so long to feel him like that again—deep, raw, relentless. Ever since that night at his house, when he first fucked me into oblivion, I’d ached to have him back inside me. I’d touched myself to the memory more times than I could admit, desperate for the pressure of his body, the stretch of his cock, the bruising, perfect rhythm only he could give.
And now that I had it—hadhim—I felt like I could finally breathe. Like my body had been starving and he was the only thing that could satisfy it. But even that satisfaction came with its own kind of hunger. Because now that I knew what it felt like again—his heat, hisweight, the way he made me feel utterly, completely owned—I didn’t want it to end.
I wanted more. Again. And again. Until I couldn’t walk. Until I forgot my name and only remembered his.
The fire between us hadn’t burned out—it was only stoking higher, and I could feel it in the way his hands lingered, possessive yet hungry, as if he wasn’t done claiming me. My body still thrummed with the aftershocks of my climax, but the ache for him hadn’t dulled. It was sharper now, insatiable.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark with a need that mirrored my own. “You think we’re finished?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down my spine. “I’m just getting started.”
Before I could respond, he lifted me from the glass, his hands strong and sure, carrying me to another sofa a few steps away. Lights glinted off the infinity pool nearby, casting a soft glow over his features—sharp jaw, shadowed eyes, the faint scar beneath his ear that I wanted to trace with my tongue.
He set me down gently, but there was nothing gentle in the way he looked at me, like a predator who’d caught his prey and intended to savor every bite.
He knelt before me again, his hands sliding up my thighs, parting them with a deliberate slowness that made my breath catch. My dress was still bunched at my hips, my panties long gone, and the exposure made my heart pound. But Ronan’s gaze held me captive, and all I could think about was him.
“You’re so wet for me,” he said, his voice thick with reverence as his fingers traced the slick heat between my thighs. “So fucking perfect.”
He leaned in, his breath warm against my skin, andthen his mouth was on me again, his tongue teasing the sensitive bud at my center with slow, languid strokes. I moaned, my hands fisting in his hair, my hips arching toward him as he licked and sucked, each movement precise, calculated to unravel me.
His beard scraped my inner thighs, a delicious burn that heightened every sensation, and I felt the pressure building again, coiling tight in my core.
I could do this all night.
He didn’t rush. He savored me, his tongue dipping lower, exploring every inch, tasting me like I was a delicacy he’d never tire of. My head fell back against the sofa, my eyes catching the fairy lights tangled in the greenery above, their soft glow blurring as pleasure consumed me.
“Ronan,” I gasped, my voice breaking, and he growled against me, the vibration sending a jolt through my body. His hands gripped my hips, holding me in place as he pushed me closer to the edge, his tongue relentless, his fingers joining now, sliding inside me, curling just right until I was trembling, my thighs shaking against his shoulders.
The climax hit me like a tidal wave, my cry echoing across the terrace, swallowed by the night air but loud enough to make me wonder if someone heard—if someone saw.
My body shuddered, my nails digging into his scalp, and he didn’t stop, drawing out every pulse of pleasure until I was gasping, my chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath.
He rose, his lips glistening with me, and the sight was so raw, so intimate, that my desire flared anew. He kissed me, hard and deep, letting me taste myself on his tongue, and I pulled at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin againstmine. He helped me, unbuttoning his shirt with a speed that betrayed his own need.
His chest was a map of scars and muscle, each mark a story I hadn’t yet learned, and I traced them with my fingertips, my lips, wanting to know every part of him.
“Turn around,” he said, his voice rough, and I obeyed, my body moving before my mind could catch up. I faced the glass wall again, my hands pressing against the surface, the city sprawling below.
He stood behind me, his hands on my hips, lifting my dress higher until it was nothing but a whisper of fabric around my waist. His trousers were already undone, and I felt him, hard and ready again, pressing against me, teasing my entrance as he leaned in, his lips brushing my ear.
“You’re mine, Zara,” he growled, his hands sliding up my sides, cupping my breasts through my bra before tugging it down, freeing them to the night air. His fingers teased my nipples, pinching lightly, and I moaned, my back arching, pressing myself against him. “I want you to feel me everywhere. I want you to remember this.”
He entered me slowly, inch by torturous inch, and I gasped, my palms slipping against the glass as he filled me completely. The angle was deep, intense, and he held me there for a moment, letting me adjust, his hands gentle but firm on my hips.
Then he began to move, slow at first, each thrust deliberate, his breath hot against my neck. “You feel so good,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through me. “So fucking mine.”
