Page 22 of Lady and the Hitman
“You’re mine now,” he said, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “And when I decide you’ve had enough, you’ll know.”
The cabin of the car was too hot. Or maybe I was.
I didn’t speak.
I didn’t move.
I just sat there in the silence, aroused and trembling and more alive than I had ever been.
6
The door of the jet closed behind us with a soft hiss. Soundproof. Final.
The air inside was cool and dry, scented faintly with leather and citrus. Not like commercial flights. Not like anything I’d ever experienced. Everything was too quiet, too clean, too intentional.
There were no rows of seats—just wide, cream-colored leather armchairs and a sofa that looked like it belonged in an upscale hotel lounge. Polished brass fixtures. A marble-topped bar tucked into the back corner.
I stood just inside the cabin, heart still thrumming, unsure where to go.
He didn’t tell me.
He just brushed past, removed his jacket, and hung it neatly in the closet by the door. Beneath it, he wore a crisp white shirt rolled at the sleeves, revealing forearms carved with muscle and dusted with dark hair. Strong hands. Veined and capable.
He looked like he could break a man with two fingers.
“I—uh.” I swallowed. “Where should I?—”
“Wherever you want.”
His voice was quiet. Steady. Like it didn’t need to rise to command me.
I nodded, dropped into the nearest chair.
He didn’t sit.
He walked to the bar, opened a crystal decanter, and poured something amber into two short glasses. Moved like he’d done it a hundred times before. Like this wasn’t just a plane—it was his.
He returned and handed one glass to me.
I took it carefully. Our fingers touched. The contact was electric.
“Scotch?” I asked, trying to sound like I had any idea.
“Bourbon,” he said. “Small batch. Yours has more ice.”
I took a sip.
It burned in the best way.
He finally sat—across from me, legs wide, one arm slung casually over the back of his chair. The other held the glass. He took a slow drink, then rested it on his thigh. Like we were two old friends catching up after a long day.
Except the air between us felt combustible.
I shifted in my seat, trying not to fidget. My dress had ridden up slightly, and the leather stuck to the backs of my thighs.
He watched me.
Not obviously. Not rudely.
