Page 95 of Lady and the Hitman
Then he reached for something on the nearbycounter—a small black box. He opened it without flourish and held it out in one palm.
Inside was a bracelet. Thin, delicate. Gold. A single sapphire set in the center, dark as twilight.
“I want you to wear it,” he said. “Every time you see me.”
My chest went tight. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s not about that.”
“I know.” I hesitated. “But it’s … personal.”
A flicker passed through his expression—something dark, something claiming. “It’s a reminder.”
My pulse skipped. “Of what?”
His eyes locked on mine. “That you’re mine.”
The air caught in my throat.
He fastened it around my wrist himself, his fingers brushing my skin, sending tiny shockwaves straight to the center of me.
When he was done, he stepped back and nodded toward the water. “Get in.”
I did.
The heat hit first—then the weightlessness. The water lapped at my collarbones as I sank in, the scent of whatever he’d added wrapping around me like silk. I leaned back against the edge, eyes fluttering closed for just a second.
Then I felt him behind me.
He didn’t get in.
He knelt.
One hand cradled the back of my head. The other dipped into the water, lifting, pouring it over my shoulders like a benediction. Again. And again. Until I was soaked and blinking up at him like he’d reached inside and rewired my lungs.
I didn’t even care that I’d already washed and styledmy hair earlier. That it had been blown out smooth and soft, every strand in place. It was soaked now—clinging to my neck, my shoulders, ruined in the best possible way. That version of me—the one who planned, who prepared, who tried to control how she looked and how she appeared to the world—felt miles away. Drowned in this quiet, sacred moment.
There was only now. Only his hands. His patience. His care. I wasn’t thinking about tomorrow or touch-ups or anything beyond the way he poured water over me like I was something to be cherished. Revered. Cleansed.
He reached for a cloth next—slow, careful—and began to wash me.
Not rushed. Just … intimate.
He moved over my collarbone. My arms. My stomach. He brought the cloth between my legs, and I gasped.
“You don’t have to?—”
“I want to,” he said simply.
His voice didn’t waver. His touch didn’t falter.
And I couldn’t speak after that.
When he finally stood and reached for a towel, I expected him to lift me from the water.
Instead, he stepped in—already bare, already breathtaking.
The water rose and shifted around us, the heat curling between our bodies as he sank behind me. His thighs bracketed mine, his arms slipping around my waist to pull me flush against him. Solid. Hot. Possessive in a way that didn’t ask.
