Page 18 of The Killer's Payment

At this, I can’t help but laugh. “Angel, if you knew the things I’ve—”

“I’ve lived in my father’s house for nearly twenty years. You really believe I haven’t heard things not meant for my ears? That I’ve never eavesdropped outside closed doors?” she asks, cutting me off.

I scowl. “And you’re okay with that? Okay with marrying a man who’s killed more people than most men have fucked?”

Her fork clatters to the plate. Exactly.

The silence stretches out until I can’t stand it.

“Look, these are your options, princess. You can eat your breakfast and then we leave together. After a brief stop in Vegas, we can go anywhere you want. Somewherewarm. Barbados. The Bahamas. Cabo. Or… well, you know where the door is.” Standing, I gesture toward the front hall, praying she won’t call my bluff. “But you should know that if you run, I’ll follow. You have options, Sutton. But going out into the world without me there to protect you isn’t one of them. Kidnapping you was a mistake, but it was the best mistake I ever made. And I’ll be damned if I’ll let you out of my sight now that I’ve found you.”

For a long moment, she still doesn’t answer.

Fuck. Have I blown it?

But then she grabs my hand, squeezing it between her small fingers. “James… Are you… Are you asking me tomarryyou?”

“Guys like me don’t ask, princess. We take what we want.” Pulling my hand away, I drop to my knees and push up her dress, exposing the delicate strip of blue lace that will haunt me for the rest of my life if she walks out that door. Sliding a finger beneath her thong, I run it along her slit, finding her already wet. “But this pussy was mine from the moment you waltzed in here as if you owned the place. I told you—I’m keeping you, Sutton. Whether or not a ring comes with that is up to you. But if you want it tonight, the clock is ticking.”

Glancing out the window at the setting sun, she licks her lips, drawing in a sharp breath as I cave to temptation and slide a finger into her soaking wet cunt. “But how… oh!” She gasps as I slide a second finger in, stroking the spot guaranteed to drive her crazy. “It’s nearly dark. We can’t get married today.”

“Did you miss the part where we’re going to Vegas?” I ask, pumping my fingers in and out of her slick, wet heat. “Same-day marriage licenses available until midnight pacific time.” I raise the wrist that’snotcurrently engaged in fingerbanging her horny little pussy and glance at my watch. “A deadline we willbarelymake, I might add, if your obstinance doesn’t make us miss our eight p.m. takeoff entirely.”

Spreading her legs wider, she nods. “Yes.”

“Yes?” I push her thong aside, lowering my mouth so that my breath ghosts over her needy little clit, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her.

“Yes of course I’ll… oh, please!” she begs, angling her hips toward me as I tease her with my tongue. “I’ll marry you tonight, tomorrow, in Vegas, anytime, anywhere, just don’t stop!”

“Then fucking come for me like a good little girl before we miss our flight.”

Nine

Sutton

Feelingsmall and lost inside James’s leather jacket, I dig my fingers into the car’s heated seats as mailboxes and trees rush past in a blur, heart racing. What have I gotten myself into?

I’m in a Porsche that’s going over 100 mph wearing a white dress. A white dress and something borrowed (the leather jacket), something blue (both my bra and my thoroughly drenched thong), and something…new.

I stare down at the engagement ring he slipped onto my finger when I was still seeing stars from the wicked things he did to me with his fingers and tongue, not quite believing that it’s real. Not quite believing thatthisis real.

But it is. This is definitely happening. We’re really eloping—and breaking every traffic law in the state in the process.

Of course my future husband doesn’t care about things like traffic laws. Did I really expect him to? He’s a freaking hit man. It would be weird if hewasinto following the rules.

But it isn’t really the speeding that makes me nervous, even if we are going awfully fast. It’s the realization that the man I’m about to marry is a complete stranger.

Until ten minutes ago, I couldn’t have told you what kind of car he drove—or if he evendiddrive. Plenty of New York mobsters don’t, growing up in the city and relying on hired drivers if they ascend high enough within the ranks.

And there are so many other basic facts that I don’t know about James Hunter. Where did he grow up? Does he have any siblings? What’s his favorite food? His favorite color? I don’t know whether he likes dogs better or cats—for all I know he’s a sociopath who hates animals. I can’t even say whether he prefers the Mets to the Yankees, and isn’t that something I should really know about the guy I’m about to marry?

Okay, so I’m panicking. Sue me. But when I said yes, I was listening to my heart, not my mind. And now that there are a few inches of space between us, my mind is insisting that I may have just made a huge mistake.

Sure, I’ve fantasized about him for years. But that’s the thing—fantasies aren’t reality.

Realityis this powerful, dangerous, handsome-as-sin man tearing down backroads as if the feds were on his tail. And for all I know, they might be.

“Relax, angel. This car was made for this,” he says, noticing my anxiety but misunderstanding the cause.

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