Page 182 of Ruthless Creatures
An unfamiliar and unpleasant sensation tightens my chest. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t fucking like it.
“Hi, handsome. I’m Sloane. How’d you like to buy me a drink?”
“Not interested.”
Without glancing at her friend, the confident brunette who just sashayed up and stuck her tits in my face, I slide off the barstool and follow my mark.
As I’m about to barge into the women’s restroom, she comes out. She’s not looking up, and she crashes right into me.
She jerks back, stumbles, and loses her balance. Before she can fall, I reach out and grab her upper arm to steady her.
“Careful.”
She looks up at me and drives a sword straight through my chest when she smiles.
“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
Her eyes are the blue-gray of thunderclouds. No. A stormy sea. Her lips are full and red, her skin is gleaming and poreless, and oh fucking Jesus God,I smell her. I’ve got her sweet scent in my nose, and my mouth is watering, andwhat the hell is happening to mebecause I need to taste every fucking inch of her. I need to run myhands over her naked skin and bite those pretty lips and shove my hard cock deep inside that perfect goddamn body.
She raises her brows and gives me a look that no one in my lifetime has ever given me.
Sass.
She’s fucking sassing me. Just with her expression.
Then she says, “Excuse me, please,” in this tart little way that really means, “Get the fuck out of my way, dickhead,” and I almost lose my fucking mind and kiss her. I’mthis closeto crushing my mouth to hers, pulling her into the bathroom, and bending her over the sink.
But although I’m a monster, I’m notthatkind of monster.
I brush past her into the men’s room, where I lock myself in a stall and fight the urge to take out my throbbing dick and jerk off to the thought of that sassy red mouth of hers.
What the hell is wrong with me? I don’t understand this!
Maybe I’ve been drugged. Or poisoned. Or I hit my head and forgot about it but the damage was done. Is it the elevation? Do I have altitude sickness? Am I having a stroke?
I kick the stall door so hard, it flies off its hinges and crashes into the row of sinks.
I stalk over to the sink and glare at myself in the mirror. I point at my reflection and snarl, “Pull yourself together!” Then I go back outside and bark at the hostess to get me a table.
She seats me on the opposite side of the restaurant from my mark. Unfortunately, the restaurant is small, so I’ve got an unobstructed view of her from my table. I force myself to study her, to imagine what it will be like to put a bullet in her head, wrap her body in a tarp, and dump her into the lake.
It makes me feel sick.
Physically sick to my stomach.
When the waitress arrives, I tell her to get me a Guinness. Whatever tone I used, it scares the shit out of her, because she takesoff running. She returns in two minutes with my beer, then runs away again.
I nurse it, staring at my mark and considering the situation.
I’m an assassin. By nature and by trade. I don’t cry at sad movies, I don’t coo over cute babies, and I don’t fry every brain cell I own over a girl. Even if she does smell sweet. Even if she does look like a fairy-tale princess. Even if she does have a supernatural ability to reduce me to a giant walking penis just by smiling at me.
I’m Kazimir fucking Portnov!I don’t lose my shit!
Except apparently I do, because she just looked up and locked eyes with me, and my dick is hard again. That thing inside my chest where a heart’s supposed to be is alive and kicking. My blood pulses fast and hot through every vein in my body, and I don’t know what the fuck this is, but I know it’s dangerous.
For me, for her, for everyone.
Dangerous.
