Page 135 of Lady and the Hitman
I’d already come so many times. Somehow, I still wanted more.
He turned me to face him, lifting me so my legs wrapped around his waist, the water buoyant, making me weightless in his arms. His mouth found mine, kissing me deeply as he pressed himself against me, his cock hard and ready.
He entered me slowly, the water amplifying every sensation, and I gasped, my nails digging into his shoulders as he filled me. His thrusts were deliberate, deep, each one a vow.
“I love you,” he said again, his voice rough, his lips brushing mine. “Every part of you.”
I moved with him, the water splashing softly, the city watching, and the pleasure built, sharp and overwhelming. I came once more. Hard.
But he wasn’t done. He carried me to the pool’s edge, setting me on the smooth tiles. He knelt before me, his mouth finding me, his tongue teasing my clit with slow, languid strokes that made my hips buck. His fingers joined his tongue, curling inside me, and I trembled, myhands gripping the tiles as another climax crashed through me, my cry swallowed by the night air.
He rose, kissing me deeply, and then he pulled me back into the water, guiding me to straddle his lap as he leaned against the pool’s edge. I sank onto him, the water splashing around us, and rode him slowly, his hands on my hips, his eyes locked on mine.
“I’d burn the world for you,” he murmured, his voice rough, his fingers teasing where we joined, drawing out every sensation until I shattered again, my head falling back, the stars blurring above.
His release followed, a low groan against my throat, his arms tightening around me as if he’d never let go. We stayed there, tangled in the water, our breaths mingling, the city a silent witness. He kissed my shoulder, my neck, my lips, his touch tender now, reverent.
He wrapped his arms around me, the water lapping softly, and whispered, “Zara, tell me what you want.”
“You,” I said, my voice steady despite the tears in my eyes. “I want you.”
26
The next morning, my townhouse was quiet in a way that felt temporary, like a breath held between heartbeats. Light streamed through the front windows, casting soft stripes across the hardwood floors. I moved through the space barefoot, still wearing Ronan’s shirt from the night before—oversized, wrinkled, and carrying the faint, smoky scent of his skin.
The flash drive was still in my bag. I hadn’t watched it.
Not because I didn’t want to know, but because I finally felt like I did. He’d told me who he was, and more than that, he’d shown me. Not just the violence, but the restraint. The protectiveness. The absolute way he loved.
And now that I’d decided—I mean really decided—that I wanted him, the consequences of that choice had begun to crystallize.
I opened the fridge, stared at its underwhelming contents, then shut it again. I wasn’t hungry. I wasunsettled.
It was Saturday, which meant I wouldn’t be heading to the coworking space, but the thought gave me pause. Would I go back on Monday? Would I want to?
That space had been a lifeline during the chaos of my career taking off—somewhere to anchor myself when the world felt loud and spinning. But now, the thought of walking into that building with its sleek glass walls and open-concept energy felt … off. Like trying to slip into a coat I’d already outgrown.
I wandered back to the window, chewing on the thought.
Did I even want to keep teaching? Keep writing political columns for people who only half-read them between doomscrolling and podcast episodes? What would it look like to let go of that identity—Zara Hughes, columnist, professor, voice of sharp, articulate reason in a world gone sideways?
Being with Ronan wasn’t like falling into someone’s life. It was like being rewritten from the inside out. I knew things wouldn’t be the same—not my work, not my friendships, not the way the world looked at me once they figured out who I was standing beside.
Or what he used to be.
Maybe still was.
But I’d chosen him. Chosen this. And I would figure out how to own it.
I glanced around my townhouse, suddenly aware of how small it felt. The walls seemed closer than usual, the furniture older, the whole space more temporary than I’d ever admitted. It had been enough when I was building my career, when everything felt uncertain. But now?
Now, everything had changed.
I pictured Ronan here, ducking beneath my low kitchen ceiling, his massive frame navigating my narrowhallways. It didn’t fit. He didn’t fit. And if I was honest with myself, neither did I. Not anymore.
Would I move in with him? Into that sleek, intimidating mansion tucked into the trees on John’s Island?
The idea tugged at something deep inside me. I liked his house—loved the water view, the quiet—but folding into his life felt too easy. Too passive. I didn’t want to be absorbed. I wanted to build something of our own. Together.
