Page 69 of Lady and the Hitman
Ronan leaned in. “He won’t look.”
“And if he does?”
His jaw ticked. “Then he’ll lose an eye.”
My pulse jumped. Not just at the words, but the way he said them—quiet, sure, lethal. No smile. Just promise.
God help me, it turned me on.
A slow, liquid heat pooled low in my belly, spreading outward in waves that made my thighs clench. I felt the slick ache of arousal pulse between my legs, sharp and undeniable. The timbre of his voice alone had soaked me. No touch. No kiss. Just that calm command—and the look in his eyes that told me he’d be watching, imagining, needing.
I was already wet.
Already undone.
From nothing more than a suggestion.
The air inside the SUV felt hotter, thicker, charged with something dangerous and delicious. My nipples tightened, grazing soft fabric with every breath. My skin prickled with awareness, every nerve ending begging to be seen, touched, claimed.
I hesitated. Not because I didn’t want to do it. But because part of me—some deeply socialized sliver—was still convinced I wasn’t that girl. The one who changed in the back of black cars. Who wore bikinis meant forSports Illustratedcovers. Who made men jealous.
“I’m not a model,” I murmured, my voice smaller than I meant. “My thighs touch. My stomach isn’t—” I stopped.
His hand moved, fast and certain, gripping my jaw just firm enough to silence me.
“You’re mine,” he said. “And there isn’t a man alive who wouldn’t trade everything he has just to be where I’m sitting. So don’t insult what’s mine.”
My breath caught. The back of my throat burned. Not just from arousal—but from something else. Something that again sounded a little too much like being seen.
I nodded. Barely.
He released my jaw and leaned back.
The moment stretched.
Then I reached down, peeled off my clothes, and changed—slowly—into the tiny green bikini while the driver pretended to study the road. But I saw it in the rearview mirror. The glance. Quick. Male. Curious.
Ronan saw it, too.
The air in the SUV went molten.
He didn’t say a word. Didn’t growl or scold or break eye contact with me. But his hand moved to my bare thigh and gripped.
Possessive. Steady. Territorial.
“You like it?” I asked softly, shifting to let the top settle over my breasts. It was a halter-style, cut low and tight, the kind of thing that saidcome closeranddon’t touchat the same time.
His eyes dropped to my chest. “Turn around.”
I did. Slowly. Every inch of skin newly exposed felt alive, on fire, aware of him.
The bottoms were tiny. Tied at the hips. Just enough coverage to keep things legal, not enough to protect anyone’s sanity.
When I turned back, his pupils were blown wide.
“You’ll keep your cover-up on until we’re at the chairs,” he said. “Then you’ll take it off. Slowly.”
I swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
