Page 130 of Lady and the Hitman
Not yet. Not when every nerve in my body was alight with him, with the way his thumb brushed my knuckles, with the way his eyes promised things I both craved and feared.
He didn’t tell me where we were going, but I didn’t ask. I was done asking. Done fighting. The city blurred past—gaslit streets, historic facades, the hum of lives that weren’t ours—and then we were at a private marina, where a sleek black car waited to ferry us to an exclusive club perched on the edge of Charleston’s skyline. The driver didn’t speak, just opened the door, and Ronanguided me inside with that quiet, unyielding authority that made my knees weak.
The club was a fortress of wealth, all polished brass and dark wood, the kind of place where Charleston’s elite sipped overpriced whiskey and traded secrets. Ronan didn’t pause at the entrance, didn’t acknowledge the doorman’s deferential nod. He led me through a private elevator, his hand at the small of my back, and when the doors opened, we stepped onto a rooftop terrace that stole my breath.
It was a dream carved from starlight and money.
Fairy lights twinkled through lush greenery, velvet sofas gleamed under the glow of an infinity pool, and a glass-walled lounge area stood like a jewel against the city skyline. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of ocean and possibility, but the glass walls made my stomach lurch. They offered privacy from the club below, but anyone with a telephoto lens in a nearby building—or a drone humming in the night—could see us.
Could snap a picture.
Could destroy me.
I froze, my fingers tightening around my bag, the flash drive inside it a lead weight against my hip. It held the truth about Ronan—about the man who’d killed, who’d fixed problems for the powerful, who’d built a fortune in shadows. I should’ve been desperate to plug it in, to know who he really was. But all I could think about was the heat of his body beside mine, the way his gaze stripped me bare, the way my skin burned for his touch.
The truth could wait. He couldn’t.
“You’re thinking too much again,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, like gravel wrapped in velvet. He stepped closer, his chest brushing my shoulder, his breath warm against my ear. “Stop.”
“I can’t,” I whispered, my eyes darting to the glass walls, to the glittering city beyond. “Someone could see us.”
His hand slid around my waist, firm and possessive. “Let them.”
“Ronan—”
“I’m going to fuck you right here,” he said, voice a dark promise. “Up against this glass. With the whole goddamn city watching if they’re lucky enough to look up.”
My breath hitched.
“Let them see who you belong to.” His fingers skimmed down, tracing the line of my spine. “Let them watch you fall apart for me. Let them see what it looks like when a woman stops hiding.”
My breath hitched, desire pooling low in my belly, drowning out the fear. I turned to face him, my hands trembling as they found his chest, the hard planes of muscle beneath his shirt. His eyes were dark, almost black in the dim light, and they held me like chains—willingly worn.
“Ronan,” I said, my voice barely audible over the distant hum of Charleston’s nightlife. “This could destroy me.”
“No.” His fingers cupped my chin, tilting my face to his. “I’d never let that happen. You’re safe with me, Zara. Always.”
I believed him. God help me, I did. Even with the flash drive burning a hole in my bag, even with the risk of a camera flashing in the distance, even with my career hanging by a thread. I believed him because I wanted him—wanted this—more than I’d ever wanted anything.
He kissed me then, slow and deep, his lips a command I couldn’t refuse. His tongue teased mine,tasting of bourbon, and I melted into him, my hands fisting in his shirt as the world fell away. The glass walls, the city, the threat of exposure—they faded until it was just us, just the heat of his mouth, the press of his body, the glorious ache building inside me.
He pulled back, his eyes searching mine. “I want you happy,” he said, voice thick with something raw, something real. “I’ll buy you any house you want. Build it from the ground up. Whatever you dream, Zara, it’s yours. Just say the word.”
The words hit me like a wave, flooding me with warmth and want. He wasn’t just offering a future—he was offering everything. His wealth, his power, his heart. And I wanted it all, even if it scared me to death.
“I don’t need a house,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I just need you.”
Something snapped in his gaze, a leash breaking.
He kissed me again, harder this time, his hands sliding to my hips, lifting me until my legs wrapped around his waist. He carried me to a velvet sofa near the glass wall, the city glittering like a warning behind us. He set me down, his hands steady but reverent, and began to peel my dress away, inch by torturous inch, as if unwrapping a gift he’d waited years to claim.
The fabric slid down my shoulders, pooling at my waist, and his lips followed, kissing the curve of my collarbone, the swell of my breasts, the sensitive skin just above my bra. His beard scraped my flesh, sending shivers racing through me, and I arched into him, my fingers tangling in his hair. The glass wall was smooth and hard against my back, and the thought of someone watching—someone snapping a photo—made my pulse race with a mix of fear and thrill.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he growled, his handssliding under my dress, pushing it higher until it bunched at my hips. His fingers traced the edge of my panties, teasing, torturing, and I moaned, the sound swallowed by the night air. “You’re mine, Zara. Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I gasped, the words spilling out as his fingers slipped beneath the lace, finding me slick and ready. My head fell back against the glass, the city lights blurring as he stroked me, slow and deliberate, his thumb circling just right until my hips bucked against him.
“That’s it,” he murmured, his lips brushing my throat, my jaw, my mouth. “Let go for me. Let the world see.”
