Page 39 of Lady and the Hitman
He watched me drink.
Watched the movement of my throat. The way my lips parted. The color rising in my chest.
“You want me to touch you,” he said quietly.
“I—” I choked on a breath.
“Not here?” he asked.
I didn’t answer.
But he smiled like I had.
His fingers brushed lower.
The inside of my arm.
Then the curve of my waist, barely hidden beneath the tablecloth.
“I could make you come,” he whispered, “right here. Without anyone knowing.”
My eyes fluttered shut.
“Would you stop me?”
“No.”
He leaned in closer.
“Good girl.”
The words unraveled me.
Not because they were dirty.
Because they were true.
I didn’t want him to stop. Not here, not ever. Not even if the maître d’ walked by and saw his hand slip lower. Not even if the sommelier returned to refill our glasses and noticed the way I was pressing my thighs together, just to keep from falling apart.
I wanted to be ruined in public.
By this man who hadn’t told me his name.
His fingers ghosted across my ribcage, just beneath the side slit of my dress. The booth shielded the motion, the tablecloth hiding what the shadows didn’t. I tried to focus on the food. The wine. The conversation at the next table. Anything.
But he smelled like power. Like musk and danger disguised as a gentleman. Like a man who didn’t ask for permission because he never had to.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured.
I was.
His hand moved again. Down. Just a little.
He didn’t rush.
He traced the line where my torso met my thigh.That tender, secret place. So close to where I ached, I nearly sobbed.
“Open your legs,” he said.
