Page 68 of Lethal Torture
Not that there’s anything new in that. Wearing a hessian sack over her head and rags for clothing, Zin would still be the hottest smokeshow in town.
But dressed in a figure-hugging black sheath with a killer slit exposing one curved thigh, her white-blonde hair in the ever-present French roll and her lips painted bright red, Zin isn’t just stunning.
She’s a fucking knockout.
A bolt of mindless lust punches me in the groin.
I’m a military operative, for Chrissakes. Discipline is as natural as breathing.
I’m just going to have to disassociate.
Detach.
Someone tell that to my cock.
I take a deep breath before I approach Anatoly’s hunched figure standing by the car. He eyes my stained clothes but, typically, doesn’t ask any questions.
“Wait inside the car where it’s warm,” I say, smiling at him. “We’ll be done shortly, and then you can take her home.”
Oh, so you’re sending her home, are you, Luke?
“Da.” The faint flash of relief I see in Anatoly’s eyes tells me that I just made the right call. “I vill vait.”
Thank Christ the old man can’t read minds, or he’d be blocking the fucking door.
Outside the apartment I check my phone screen again. Now Zin’s standing in the bedroom, frozen like she’s in some kind of trance.
The sight of her so close to my bed, in stilettos and a dress I estimate would take me exactly three seconds to remove, has the potential to seriously short-circuit my brain.
So much for my legendary detachment.
I should knock, or at least let her know I’m here.
Instead I open the door and slip inside without making a sound, then lean against the bedroom doorframe. “Find anything interesting?”
She spins around, face pale but for two high spots of color. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Clearly,” I say dryly.
The bed is close enough that all I can think about is bending her over it.
Get out of the bedroom, Luke.
I turn and walk into the kitchen, watching her covertly in the window reflection. She looks uncharacteristically uncertain, as if she might bolt at any moment.
I’m surprised by how much I don’t want her to.
“Drink?” I take a bottle down from the shelf.
She frowns as I open it. “I didn’t take you for a Disaronno drinker.”
“I’m not.” I pour the liqueur over rocks and hand her the glass. “But you are, and I like to be prepared.”
She sips cautiously, eyeing my wet clothes. “What happened to you?”
“Came across someone who needed a hand with a flat tire.” I pour myself a Scotch.
“And of course you had to help her.” There’s a slight edge to her voice.
