Page 62 of Lady and the Hitman
I hovered near the edge of the bed, heart still drumming, towel tucked tight beneath my arms. My skin was flushed, still tingling from the bath—and from him. From the way he’d looked at me. Touched me. Not touched me.
Because that was the most confusing part.
He could’ve had me.
Hehadme.
And yet here he was, pulling back the covers and fluffing goddamn pillows instead of pinning me down and wrecking me like he’d promised.
He finished his quiet ritual, then turned to face me fully. “You can sleep here.”
A pause. “I mean, you will sleep here.”
My brows lifted. “And you?”
“I’ll be beside you.”
I searched his face. “Just sleep?”
His mouth curved. “For now.”
A war waged in my chest—relief and disappointment, tangled like a lover’s limbs. I didn’t want him to stop. I didn’t want him to go slow. But I also did. Because this moment, stretched so delicately between us, felt rarer than anything I’d ever been given.
It felt like restraint. And reverence.
And that terrified me more than any predator in the dark.
I dropped the towel and slipped beneath the sheets without comment.
His eyes flicked down, just once—quick but deliberate.
Then he moved to the other side of the bed, shed his shirt, and stepped out of his pants with the same quiet composure he used to plan a hunt. No showmanship. No arrogance. Just calm confidence in every inch of his lean, hard body.
When he climbed in beside me, the mattress dipped under his weight.
I lay still.
So did he.
For a beat.
Two.
Then I felt his hand reach for mine beneath the covers, fingers finding fingers like they’d done this a thousand times before.
I let out a breath.
Not because I wanted less.
But because I trusted him to give me more.
Eventually.
He brought our joined hands to his chest, anchoring me there—close enough to feel the steady thump of his heart against my knuckles.
“Sleep, Zara,” he whispered.
And for the first time in what felt like years …
