Page 20 of Lady and the Hitman
What did this man do when he wasn’t here, sweeping women into luxury vehicles like a fever dream? Did he have a name I could Google? An identity? A past?
Was he ex-military like Mina said? CIA? Did he live in a house with cameras and steel shutters and weapons locked in glass cases? Did he speak other languages? Handle offshore accounts? Did he go to sleep early or stay up all night, cataloging threats in the dark?
Was there a file on me in some secure server, full of my essays and photos and social media comments I’d posted at 2 a.m. while drunk on boxed wine and female rage?
Had he watched me for days?
Had he seen the moment I came apart in bed thinking of him—whoever he was—before I’d ever seen his face?
The thought made my breath hitch.
“Lady.”
The name rolled off his tongue—not sharp, but smooth. Measured. Mina had told me that’s what they called the women in Alpha Mail—never by name, never personal. JustLady.
Still, the way he said it made it feel like mine.
“Yes?”
His eyes stayed on the road. “Take off your seatbelt.”
My pulse spiked. “Why?”
“Because I want to see you.”
It wasn’t a question.
I reached for the buckle, hands shaking, and unclicked it. The belt hissed back into place.
His hand moved from the gearshift to my thigh.
Not high. Not demanding.
Just a hand. Resting. Large. Heavy. Warm.
Possessive.
I stared at it.
He didn’t move it.
Didn’t squeeze.
Didn’t speak.
He just let it sit there, like it belonged. LikeIbelonged.
The hum between my legs turned into a throb.
“I’ve been watching you longer than you think,” he said, voice low.
I turned my head, throat dry. “How long?”
His thumb brushed against my skin. Just once.
“You’ll sleep better not knowing.”
I shivered.
