Page 97 of Lady and the Hitman
I swallowed, slowly, savoring the intimacy of it, the way it bound us in this moment. The way it made me feel claimed from the inside out—marked not just by what he did to my body, but what I chose to take from him. What I wanted to take.
He pulled me up gently, turning me to face him, his lips crashing into mine in a kiss that tasted of both of us, raw and unfiltered. We collapsed onto the bed, tangled in the sheets, our breaths ragged, our bodies slick with sweat. His arms wrapped around me, pulling me against his chest, his lips brushing my forehead, my temple, my lips, his touch tender now.
“You,” he murmured, his voice rough but soft, “you’re everything.” His fingers stroked my hair, my back, grounding me in the quiet after the storm. The world outside—my job, my principles, the risks—faded, and I let myself sink into him, into the truth of us.
“I’m yours,” I whispered, the words spilling out before I could stop them, and his arms tightened, his lips curving into a smile against my skin. He didn’t demand more, didn’t need to. He just held me, the night stretching out before us, and I knew this wasn’t about control. It was about surrender—his as much as mine.
But then?—
“I want to take you out.”
I blinked against his chest. “What?”
“To dinner. There’s a place I like downtown. Quiet.Italian. I want to see you across a table. With wine and real conversation. I want them to see us.”
My stomach twisted.
“I—Ronan …”
He tilted my chin. “What?”
“I don’t know if I can do that. Not here. Not yet.”
His jaw flexed. “You’re mine, Zara. I don’t care who sees.”
I sat up slowly, the sheet pulling with me. “But I do.”
His eyes locked on mine—sharp, possessive, unreadable.
The silence stretched between us.
“I want to,” I said quietly. “I’m hungry. I want dinner. I want to be with you.”
His eyes softened for a half-second. But I didn’t stop there.
“It’s just—” I hesitated, heart thudding. “This town is a powder keg. My name’s already being whispered in rooms I haven’t stepped foot in for years. If someone sees us—if a photo ends up online or in someone’s text thread—it’s not just scandal. It’s professional fallout. I’m not ready to weather that.”
His brow furrowed. “So don’t.”
I nodded, hopeful. “Could you whisk me away again? Somewhere private. Somewhere it’s just us.”
The moment I said it, I knew I’d misstepped.
His face didn’t harden, not exactly. But something in it shuttered.
“I can,” he said after a beat. “But I don’t want to.”
I swallowed. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to hide you, Zara. I don’t want to sneak around like you’re some dirty secret.” His voice wasn’t raised, but it cut sharp. “I want people to knowyou’re mine. I want to be the man who walks into a restaurant with you on his arm and dares them to say something.”
“I’m not ashamed of you,” I said quickly.
“Then what are you afraid of?”
I looked away, staring at the darkened window, my own reflection blurry in the glass. “Everything.”
“Look at me.”
