Page 35 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
Her gaze drags over me like heat, like punishment.
But she doesn't move.
She waits.
I drop to my knees in front of her and yank the fabric of her dress higher, baring her again.
She's already soaked, slick from the fingers I buried inside her earlier, and when I lower my head and taste her, her whole body arches with a sound that doesn't belong in any drawing room.
My hands grip her thighs, forcing them wider, anchoring her to the bed as I press my tongue against her with a desperation I can't restrain.
I eat her like I'm starving, like her body is the only truth I've ever known, and I'm trying to memorize it before the world ends.
Her fingers twist into my hair, her hips grinding into my face, and I let her.
I let her take what she needs because I need it too.
When she comes, it's violent.
Her back bows, a sob tearing from her throat as her thighs close around my head and she pulses against my mouth, shaking like something splintered.
I don't stop.
I take her through it, through the aftershocks, until she's begging in broken whispers I can't quite make out.
Then I rise.
Her lipstick is ruined.
Her chest rises and falls like she's just survived drowning.
I watch her come back to herself, see the moment her gaze clears and her focus narrows.
I shove my pants down and kick them away.
My cock is hard and thick, flushed at the tip, veins pulsing like it's been waiting for this moment longer than I have.
I curl my hand around the base, watching her eyes darken as I stroke once, twice, letting her see what's about to claim her.
She doesn't look away.
She reaches for me, both hands bracing on my chest as she pulls me closer, and I fall onto the bed with her, my body covering hers in one long, searing line.
Her thighs part without hesitation.
The heat of her makes me groan, and when I slide into her—deep, stretching her wide all over again—her nails bite into my back.
I fuck her like I'm trying to erase every man who's ever looked at her like she was currency.
I fuck her like I'm carving my name into her bones, like the act itself is a vow no church could ever sanctify.
My hips slam into hers, again and again, the headboard knocking against the wall, the mattress creaking under the violence of it, and she meets every thrust with a cry of pleasure that turns my blood molten.
Her legs wrap around my waist, locking me to her.
Her hands climb to my shoulders, then my neck, pulling me down until our mouths collide.
The kiss is messy, teeth clashing, tongues slick, her breath pouring into me as she whimpers against my lips.
