Page 92 of Lady and the Hitman
“I’m not going slow,” he said, voice right at my ear. “Not tonight.”
The words curled around my spine like smoke, setting every inch of me alight.
I didn’t want slow. I didn’t want sweet or careful oranything that could be mistaken for patience. I wanted what had been simmering between us since the moment he first touched me—no, before that. Since he looked at me like I was already his. Since I wrote that first humiliating, reckless request and meant every damn word.
My body pulsed around nothing, desperate and aching.
I could feel the thick press of him against my pussy, teasing, taunting, dragging through my slick folds with the kind of restraint that bordered on cruelty.
“Then don’t,” I whispered, throat dry and lips parted.
I barely got the words out before my world tilted.
I didn’t get another breath.
He drove into me in one hard, perfect thrust—and I shattered around it.
My gasp caught, ragged and raw, as he filled me to the hilt. There was no easing in. No soft easing at all. Just the stretch. The shock. The claiming.
And yet it wasn’t just the shock of him—it was the overwhelming rightness of it.
I had never, in my entire life, been satisfied. Not fully. Not the way women whispered about in locker rooms or novels or behind closed doors over too many glasses of wine. I’d faked it. I’d chased it. I’d settled for the dull ache of almost.
But with Ronan?
There was noalmost.
He hadn’t even moved, and I already felt like I’d come home to a place I didn’t know I’d been searching for. My body clung to him, greedy and shameless, as if it knew this wasn’t just sex. This was the answer to a question I hadn’t dared ask.
I felt full in a way that went beyond physical. Like he reached into the hollow spaces of me—every doubt, every ache, every lonely hour I’d spent trying to prove I didn’t need something deeper—and filled them without asking permission.
I wanted more. I wanted all of him.
I wanted to be taken. Loved. Ruined.
Because for the first time, I wasn’t afraid to want. Not with him. Not when he made me feel like wanting was the most powerful thing a woman could do.
He stayed deep, his body locked against mine, as if even the idea of pulling back was unbearable. I could feel every hard inch of him, every beat of his heart syncing with mine, every breath a silent declaration that I was his now—filled, possessed, undone.
“You feel that?” he asked, his mouth at my neck. “That’s how you’ll know. Every time you close your legs, every time you sit down tomorrow, you’ll feel me. Right here.”
He rocked into me, slow and devastating. “And you’ll remember what you let me do.”
I braced harder against the railing as he started to move, hard and fast and merciless, the sound of skin against skin obscene in the open air.
“You think I’m going to stop with this?” he growled. “You think I’m going to let you walk back into your quiet little life like this didn’t happen?”
“Ronan—”
“No,” he snapped, one hand sliding up my back to fist in my hair, pulling my head back just enough for him to kiss the side of my throat, hard. “Say my name like you mean it.”
“Ronan.” It came out a broken gasp.
“Again.”
“Ronan.”
“Louder.”
