Page 35 of Lady and the Hitman

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“Now.”

I slid my hand between my thighs.

I was soaked. I’m not sure I’d ever been so wet in my entire life.

My fingers trembled as I touched myself, slow and tentative at first—then deeper, slicker, greedier. My breath caught. I moaned before I could stop it.

“Quieter,” he said.

I bit down on a gasp.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Keep going. Until you forget your name. Until you remember who owns you.”

My legs threatened to give out.

“I—” I choked.

“Not yet,” he growled.

I stopped.

Desperate.

Shaking.

Silent.

“Don’t turn around,” he said. “Just listen to me.”

I pressed my hands harder to the wall, like it might ground me. It didn’t.

“Close your eyes,” he said. “And picture me behind you.”

I did.

“Did you notice the way my chest stretched the fabric of my shirt when I leaned into the car?” His voice was low, dark silk. “The way my shoulders fill a doorway?”

“Yes,” I breathed.

“The curve of my thigh when I sit? That’s muscle. That’s strength. You imagined it between yours, didn’t you?”

I whimpered.

“Did you notice the bulge of my cock in the cabin?”

I clenched.

“Did you wonder how thick it is? How hard it gets when you look at me like you’re ready to be ruined?”

My knees buckled, just slightly.

The air was humid. Salt-soaked. I could hear the ocean nearby—just beyond the city noise, pulsing like another heartbeat.

The heat of Miami wrapped around me liketemptation incarnate. The scent of night-blooming flowers. Distant bass from a rooftop bar. The wind off the water still carried sun in it. And here I was, pressed against a wall in the shadows, touching myself to the sound of a man’s voice while the city laughed and moved and lived around me.

It felt like a dream.

Or a breakdown.

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