Page 96 of Lady and the Hitman
He pressed a kiss beneath my ear, then another at the slope of my shoulder, his lips lingering like he was memorizing my skin. His hands moved slowly, reverently—trailing suds and steam as they explored every inch like they had all the time in the world.
We didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The silence between us was full—thick with breath, with tension, with something that felt dangerously close to worship.
By the time the water turned tepid, my limbs were limp, my head resting against his chest, my body sated and weightless.
He rose first, lifting me with him, careful and unhurried. He wrapped me in a warm towel before scooping me into his arms again—like I was something to be handled gently, even now. Especially now.
Back to the bedroom. Back to the wide bed dressed in soft white and shadows.
He laid me down, then joined me without ceremony. No striptease. No seduction.
Just Ronan. All of him.
A body made for sin and salvation both—broad shoulders, taut muscle, rough edges softened only by the look in his eyes.
I drank him in.
And still, I was thirsty.
I knew I was in too deep.
I didn’t care.
This time, it wasn’t like before.
It was slower. Softer.
His mouth brushed mine, his fingers stroking every inch of me.
I didn’t just feel wanted.
I felt chosen.
“Lie down,” he said, his voice a quiet command, and I obeyed, sinking onto the bed, the linens cool against my heated skin. He followed, his body a study in control as he knelt over me, his hands guiding my thighs apart.But then he shifted, lying on his back beside me, his head toward the foot of the bed. His hands found my hips, urging me to move, to straddle his chest, facing his feet, and my breath hitched as I understood what he wanted.
“Come here,” he growled, his hands pulling me back until my hips hovered above his face, my knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his head.
The vulnerability of it—the exposure—made my heart race, but his grip was firm, grounding me. His lips brushed the inside of my thigh, his stubble a delicious scrape against my skin, and I gasped as his tongue found me, teasing my clit with slow, languid strokes that sent sparks through my core. The sensation was overwhelming, his mouth hot and relentless, sucking gently, then harder, his fingers spreading me open to deepen the contact.
I leaned forward, my hands bracing on his thighs, feeling the hard muscle beneath my palms. The sight of him—hard, thick, pulsing—made my mouth water, and I took him in, my lips closing around the tip of his cock, tasting the salt of his skin. He groaned against me, the vibration sending a jolt through my body, and I moaned in response, the sound muffled as I took him deeper, my tongue swirling along his length.
We moved together, a rhythm of give and take, his tongue relentless as it circled and flicked, his fingers sliding inside me, curling just right to make my thighs tremble. I worked him with my mouth, slow at first, then faster, matching the pace of his tongue, my lips tight around him as I sucked, drawing low, guttural sounds from his throat.
The linens twisted beneath us, the soft lights in the room casting flickering shadows that danced across hisskin, and I felt utterly consumed, my body alive with sensation.
“Zara,” he rasped against me, his voice thick with need, his tongue never slowing. “You’re so fucking perfect.” His words sent a fresh wave of heat through me, and I rocked against his mouth, my hips moving instinctively as the pleasure built, sharp and unstoppable.
I sucked harder, my hand wrapping around the base of him, stroking in time with my mouth, and his hips bucked, his groans vibrating against my core.
The room was filled with the sounds of us—my muffled moans, his low growls, the soft rustle of the sheets. My body was a live wire, every nerve singing as he licked and sucked, his fingers moving faster, pushing me toward the edge. I felt him tense beneath me, his thighs tightening under my hands, and I knew he was close, too. The thought of it—of unraveling him as he unraveled me—sent me spiraling, and I came with a cry, my body shuddering against his mouth, waves of pleasure crashing through me.
He didn’t stop, drawing out every pulse, his tongue softening but never relenting until I was trembling, oversensitive and gasping.
I focused on him, desperate to give him the same release, my lips and tongue working with a fervor. His hands tightened on my hips, his groans growing desperate, vibrating against me as he kept his mouth on me, his tongue never leaving my clit, like he loved the taste of me and couldn’t get enough, even as his own climax built.
Then he came, a low, primal sound muffled against my skin, his release hot and sharp in my mouth, his lips still savoring me, relentless, as if my taste was his anchor.
I’d never done it before. Never swallowed a man’s come. Not because I was squeamish or prudish—but because no one had ever made me want to. Not like this. Not with the desperation that gripped me now, the hunger that went deeper than sex. I wanted all of him. Every drop. Every raw, unfiltered part he gave me.
