Page 6 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
His mouth slants over mine with the ache of someone who has waited too long to taste, and now that he has, will not stop until he's ruined the memory of every kiss before his.
One hand braces at the small of my back, the other still cradling my neck, and my fingers find his lapel before curling tightly in the fabric.
I kiss him back like I'm trying to reclaim something he never stole.
His breath grows heavier, lips parting only slightly as he drinks me in between kisses that are deeper now, darker, slick with heat and hunger.
His hand slides lower, fingers splayed possessively against the curve of my hip, while the other keeps me anchored by the neck, firm and steady, like he's holding me in place to keep the world from shifting beneath our feet.
My lips are bruised, my body boneless, but I want more.
I tilt my head to taste him again, and he meets me there, slower this time, mouths gliding, tongues tangling, like we are learning each other by touch alone.
When he finally draws back, it is not to break the moment but to drag it out, his lips barely brushing mine, our breaths tangled between us.
His gaze holds me captive, and I feel it everywhere.
My pulse is no longer my own.
My body is no longer mine.
I can still taste him, still feel the weight of him pressed against me, and I know with terrifying clarity that I will let him do this again.
I will let him ruin me, piece by piece, until I forget who I was before his mouth found mine.
His eyes burn into mine as I stand there, breathless and trembling, every nerve strung so tight I feel like I might shatter with the next touch.
He leans in again, slower this time, dragging his mouth over mine in a kiss that sears rather than soothes.
I gasp, and he uses the sound to deepen it, tongue claiming mine, mouth moving like he wants to own every last breath I have.
My moan swallows the growl that escapes him as he pulls back, just enough to speak, his voice dragging rough and low across my lips. "Come with me."
We move through the gardens without a word, the scent of roses thick in the night air, the marble path cool beneath my heels.
My pulse is in my throat, in my wrists, in the heat between my thighs.
The vines twist up the wrought iron columns of the gazebo ahead, half-shrouded in moonlight, the same one where I've watched Papa seal alliances with men who smile like knives.
He pushes the gate open and draws me inside, closing it behind us with a quiet click.
The garden wraps us in shadows and perfume, the air thick with the scent of roses just beginning to bloom, their fragrance sweet and aching.
The vines twist up around the iron ribs of the gazebo like they're holding their breath, waiting for what comes next.
I am, too.
His hands find my hips, his grip firm, almost rough, as he walks me backward until my back meets the cool column behind me.
I tremble; he's so close I can feel the heat of his body press through his clothes, through mine, and the way he looks at me makes me feel undone.
Not just undressed, but exposed, like he's stripping me down to the barest thread of want.
"You're shaking," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that settles in my belly.
"I've never—" I stop, breath catching. "I mean, not like this."
His gaze stills, and a shadow falls over his eyes. "I know," he replies darkly, as if he's known it from the first look.
