Page 93 of Lady and the Hitman
“Ronan—fuck?—”
He thrust harder, deeper, until the words stopped altogether.
I couldn’t speak.
I could only feel.
The world narrowed to the slam of his hips, the slick heat of him inside me, the unbearable need climbing higher and higher with every punishing stroke.
And then—he wrapped his arm around my waist and reached between my legs, rubbing circles over my clit with the same precision he used everywhere else.
I came so hard I saw stars.
My cry tore through the air, sharp and feral, and his body went tight behind mine.
He came with a groan that sounded like it had been ripped from his chest—raw, primal, as if he’d been holding it back for a lifetime and had finally found the one place he could fall apart. His hips thrust once, twice more, each movement desperate and deliberate, until he was spilling into me, deep and possessive, like he was marking me from the inside out.
He didn’t pull out.
And I didn’t want him to.
I could feel the heat of him flooding me, thick and unrelenting, and instead of panic or guilt or even surprise, all I felt wasyes. A heady, bone-deepyesthat bloomed low in my belly and made my breath stutter. His come dripped out around him as he stayed inside, still hard, still pressing every inch of himself into me like he needed to memorize the shape of my body from within.
I should’ve cared about the risk—about what itmeant to let a man like Ronan come inside me without hesitation. I should’ve thought about protection, about consequences, about what could happen next. But I didn’t.
All I could think about was how right it felt.
How I wanted it.
How some primitive part of me ached for it. Welcomed it. Like my body understood what my mind hadn’t caught up to yet—that this wasn’t just sex. This was belonging.
This was his.
And maybe, in some irrevocable way, I truly was his, too.
His chest pressed to my back, breath heavy against my shoulder. His arms wrapped around me like they were built for this—this exact shape, this exact moment. We stood there like that for a long time, suspended in something deeper than silence, deeper than breath. His release still inside me. His body still joined to mine. A connection that didn’t feel like it ended with orgasm, but began there. Something dangerous and beautiful and impossibly alive.
I didn’t want to move.
Didn’t want to let a single drop of him slip away.
Because for the first time in my life, I didn’t want to be just a woman who had been touched.
I wanted to be kept.
“Mine,” he whispered again. “You understand me now?”
I nodded, or tried to. “Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I’m yours.”
He exhaled into my skin like that was the only thing that could settle him.
Like he needed the words more than the sex.
It should’ve felt reckless.
