Page 63 of Lady and the Hitman
I did.
12
The first thing I felt was heat.
Not Miami heat—the kind that clung to your skin and kissed your scalp—but body heat. Ronan’s. It radiated like a furnace behind me, steady and grounding, one massive arm wrapped around my waist.
I didn’t move.
I didn’t want to.
The curtains were still drawn, the room bathed in a sleepy amber glow. I could hear the ocean faintly beyond the glass. My body ached, but not from sex. From anticipation. From running. From the storm he’d stirred and never quite quelled.
He hadn’t touched me last night. Not in the way I thought he would. Not in the way I’d begged for with every glance and whisper and breathless stare.
And somehow, that made it worse.
Better.
Worse.
I rolled slowly onto my back, careful not to dislodge his arm. His eyes were closed, lashes dark against hischeek, his lips parted just enough to prove he was human and not some fever dream conjured by need and exhaustion. I studied his face—the strong jaw, the faint scar near his brow, the shadow of stubble that scraped against my skin when he pulled me close in the night.
And I wondered.
What would it feel like—really feel like—to have him inside me? A man this big, this hard, this built for war. I thought about the size of his hands, the flex of his forearms, the brutal, effortless power in the way he moved. He could lift me. Hold me down. Flip me over like I weighed nothing.
Most men I dated were soft in the ways that made sense. Gentle with their words. Measured in their movements. Always so careful, like they were afraid I might break or get mad or tweet about it later.
But Ronan?
He moved like someone who handled threats. Like someone who didn’t need to apologize for wanting to take.
And I wanted to be taken.
The kind of taking that left marks. That ruined me for anyone else.
My thighs clenched, slow and involuntary, and I felt the ache that hadn’t left me.
He’d promised to wreck me.
And now, every cell in my body was primed for detonation.
God.
He looked peaceful.
But no one like him could ever really be at peace.
I let myself trace a single fingertip along the edge of his forearm, over veins and muscle. He didn’t stir.
He trusted me here.
That realization sat heavy in my chest.
I slipped out of bed quietly and padded into the bathroom, steam still lingering from the bath. My reflection in the mirror made me pause—hair a mess, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. A girl undone.
No. A woman remade.
