Page 59 of Lady and the Hitman
He didn’t reach for the dress. Didn’t undress me himself. Just turned and reached for a neatly folded towel on the bench.
Privacy. Respect. And somehow, still full control.
I swallowed hard.
My hands trembled slightly as I reached behind my neck and loosened the tie. The silk slipped down my back, pooling at my ankles. I stepped out of it and folded it neatly over a nearby chair. No bra. No panties. No shame.
Not with the way he was looking at me.
Like I was art.
His eyes lingered on the curve of my hips, the dip of my waist, the soft roundness of my breasts. But he didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Just offered his hand again.
I took it.
The water was hot. Not scalding—perfect. It enveloped me slowly as I sank, sighing as the heat kissed my skin and coaxed the tension from my thighs, my shoulders, the base of my spine.
I reclined fully, hair swept up, breasts just visible above the surface, nipples tightening in the change of temperature. I watched him through the rising steam.
“I thought you were going to ravage me,” I said softly.
He chuckled. “So did I.”
I tilted my head. “Why didn’t you?”
He crouched beside the tub, one knee pressing into the rug, the other arm resting on the edge. His sleeves were still rolled. His shirt unbuttoned just enough to make me ache.
“Because you’re not just some fantasy,” he said.
I blinked.
“I’ve had women who wanted the chase. Who wanted the night, the thrill, the ruin. And that’s fine. I don’t judge. But you …” He trailed off, studying me like I might disappear. “You’re something else.”
“What am I?”
He smiled. A real one. “Still figuring that out.”
Silence stretched between us, but it wasn’t awkward. It was thick with something else. Something alive.
He dipped a hand into the water and trailed it over my shin, slow and deliberate. “You ran from me tonight,” he murmured. “But not because you were scared.”
“No,” I whispered. “Because I wanted to be caught.”
His hand slid higher. Not too high. Just enough to tease. To soothe. To remind me he was still in control.
I arched my back slightly, head resting on the bath pillow, throat exposed. “You said you’d wreck me.”
“I will.”
My breath hitched.
“But not tonight.”
I opened my eyes, frustrated. “Why?”
I probably sounded like a pouty kid. My voice had that tight, breathy edge I usually reserved for customer service reps who got my coffee order wrong. But this wasn’t about oat milk. This was about him. About me. About everything he’d stirred up and left unresolved. I wanted to pout. To stomp my foot. To demand what I’d come here for.
