Page 59 of The Sinner and the Gunslinger
I go weak at the knees, grip his shoulders, and moan, “You don’t own me.”
He yanks my thong aside, drives two fingers deep into my core, and flicks his thumb over my clit until I pant and turn feverish all over.
“Don’t break my heart, Wildcat.”
My eyes clash with his. The possessive fire is gone. He’s now pleading with me. Begging. I can’t say no. I don’t want to. What the fuck is happening?
He must read the helplessness on my face because his expression softens, and he dips to kiss my neck. He saves me from confronting these feelings bursting in my chest.
I cling to him as my body submits to his touch.
“Come for me, baby,” he murmurs against my skin. “Come for me now, or I’m kneeling and using my tongue.”
The thought of him between my thighs pushes me off the edge. I implode. Explode. Break apart and float. I see stars. I see the time on my cell phone sitting on the vanity. Shit. We’re late.
Twenty-Five
Zeke
Iforgot how dark this port city gets at night. It’s miserable, dishonorable, and addictive. It’s not a city with vigilantes or good cops. This is the one God forgot. The one the moon ignored. And without a glimmer of light, darkness festers in the open.
I walk next to Leila on the dark city street and silently stew over how incredible she looks. Every drop of makeup and care in her presentation isn’t for me but for some braggart collector with a gambling problem. She’ll strut into that room on her killer stilettos, and every man will drool.
And I’ll desperately try to keep my itchy trigger finger from moving.
Her full dominatrix outfit is intoxicating. She’s classy and tempting at the same time. Shiny black patent leather sticks to her skin like glue, except for the flash of midriff and the red thong straps curving over her hips. The eye is drawn there like a magnet. She also has a bullwhip attached to her hip, sharp stiletto heels that can be used as daggers, a ring she said is filled with poison, and two metal hairpins twisted into two little buns on top of her head.
Every time she steps, a long delectable leg flashes through a slit in the skirt, and I think about my hand sliding up that thigh. I think of the moans she gave me. The sweet, utter surrender. Then I think of how I want to taste her next, to sink my dick into her.
Fuck.
The tease is doing more to heat my blood than a short dress would have. The woman knows what she’s doing. I tug my tie for the millionth time since we left the motel. This damned designer suit is too tight.
Out here in the dirty street, Leila is impervious to the lewd looks from passersby. Whenever I catch a filthy stare, I flip open my jacket and reveal one of my guns. There was a time this wild country was my playground, but it wasn’t really godless. Not with me here. Today’s visit with Andrei could have gone in a different direction.
Despite the heat Leila and I shared in the bathroom, the coldness in her eyes is back. It grew the moment she realized we were late. I don’t know how to stop it from completely consuming her.
I can see why the Sisterhood plucked her from the group home. She’s everything anyone would want in a seductive assassin. Cold, detached, all business. No wildcat in sight. It fucking kills me that this has become her life. That I failed to protect her.
Sometimes it feels like life is a never-ending cycle of bad luck. Death. Grief. Violence. Illness. More violence. More death. I start to wonder if I’m someone’s sick joke. Am I a toy at the whim of a bratty god with nothing to do but torture me? Then I remember the tiny specs of joy in it, the laughter and sheer bliss from spending time with Leila, and I think... I’m the luckiest man in the world. God gave me all the shit so that I understand what good feels like. He’s testing me so that when I find it again, I’ll do everything in my power to hold onto it.
I’ve been given the most precious gift twice. I won’t squander it.
I glance at her walking next to me. Her chin is up. Her spine is straight. She refused to bring a coat, insisting that it would mess with her cover. She sashays along the cracked sidewalk like it’s a catwalk in Milan. But her expression is stern, her eyes reveal death, and her mind is a steel trap of fortitude, preparing herself for a task that will have no happy ending.
I assume. She won’t tell me. But I can put two and two together.
“Down here.” I gesture toward the driveway of a five-star hotel.
A valet collects keys from drivers of Lamborghinis and Bugattis. The fanciest of cars are lined up at the front of the hotel.
Leila’s clicking heels stop. She angles her head up at the high-rise twinkling in the black night, then back at me. “I thought you said it was an underground poker game. I expected some dark basement somewhere.”
I try to hide my smile. “It is an underground game, meaning it’s not legal. Don’t tell me the stone-cold assassin has never been to an illegal high roller poker game before?”
“Gambling is more Raven’s wheelhouse. I’m called in when a deft touch with weapons is needed.” She taps the hairpins.
My brow furrows. “Exactly how many weapons do you have on you right now?”
