Page 54 of Lady and the Hitman
“But when I take you, it won’t be here. Not rushed. Not sloppy. It’ll be deliberate. It’ll wreck you. And you’ll never want anyone else again."
I was trembling, aching, undone.
And still he didn’t move.
Didn’t give in.
Didn’t fuck me in the grass the way I wanted.
Because he needed control.
And somehow—I needed that, too.
He pushed up, lifting me with him like I weighed nothing—like I was already his to carry. We rose together in the dark, tangled in breath and heat, our bodies brushing in ways that only stoked the fire still pulsing beneath my skin. His hand curled around the nape of my neck, thumb sweeping along my jaw with aching reverence as he kissed me again.
Softer this time.
Slower.
Like he wanted to memorize the shape of my mouth.
It didn’t matter that we were still outside, that the night hummed around us with distant life. That kiss stripped me bare in a way no amount of undressing ever could. It wasn’t a demand. It was a promise. And it undid me completely.
Then, with a quiet breath against my lips, he murmured, “Let’s go.”
Before I could move, he slipped his arms around me—one beneath my knees, the other cradling my back—and lifted me off the ground in one smooth, unhurried motion. I gasped, my arms flying around his neck, my heart hammering against his chest.
“Ronan,” I whispered, startled by the sheer intimacy of it.
“I’ve got you,” he said, his voice low and certain.
And I believed him.
Not just that he could carry me.
But that he would.
Through anything.
His steps were steady, deliberate, the rhythm of his body soothing against mine as he moved through the shadows with me in his arms. The scent of him wrapped around me, grounding me even as everything else floated.
I let my head rest against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as the sounds of the zoo faded behind us—rustling leaves, the soft rustle of wings, the distant call of something wild. A fantasy unraveling, thread by golden thread, until all that remained was him.
Us.
Each step he took felt like it carried more than just my weight—it carried meaning. Devotion. The kind of silent worship no one ever taught me to expect. The kind I’d stopped believing was real.
His grip was firm but tender, protective without ever caging me. I felt powerful in his arms, not small. Desired, not claimed. And with every breath I took, I ached for more.
Of this.
Of him.
Of whatever this thing was between us that burned hotter and hotter.
By the time we reached the gate, I wasn’t thinking about the games we’d played or the rules we’d broken. I was thinking about the way he held me like he never wanted to let go.
And how much I already didn’t want him to.
