Page 22 of The Hitman

Unfortunately, I know she’d be worth it. I can tell that every bit of time and all the money she’d require — based on the quality of her lingerie — to remain in the luxury to which she’s clearly accustomed would be more than worth it. Too bad I can’t afford her.

But something about knowing that she’s out of my league makes my dick twitch in my shorts. She’s the kind of woman I’d pass on the street, do a double-take — maybe even a triple-take — because she’s so beautiful, and then I’d think about her for the next few days, weeks, maybe even years, but nothing more.

We’re not on the street right now, though.

We’re so close that I can smell the clean scent of her soap and a floral scent that I assume is her perfume as I follow her into the penthouse suite that should have been mine. I won’t need to do a double- or triple-take with her because I don’t plan to look away, especially not when she looks at me over her left shoulder. The glance is shy, tentative as if she’s afraid I’ll disappear while she’slooking away.

She’s made a mistake. I know it, not that I’ll ever tell her that. She shouldn’t have invited me inside her room. She has no idea what I am. If she did, she wouldn’t be looking at me with red-rimmed brown eyes and dark lashes clumped together from her tears and beautiful, plump lips stained red from the wine, begging me silently to stay with her.

I will. I couldn’t leave here even if I wanted to; my mind and my body are decided on the matter.

There’s a half-full glass of wine and a bottle on the coffee table. She snatches the bottle by the neck as she passes and then sits, elegantly, in a straight-backed chair.

She nods at me to sit on the couch. She’s watching me with those eyes I want to fall into, even though I shouldn’t. I don’t know what I’m most attracted to, the sadness or the lust. Maybe both.

MaybeI’vemade the mistake.

“Why are you crying?” I ask again. I shouldn’t. This isn’t the kind of acquaintance either of us wants, and considering the circumstances of my life, this isn’t one I should court. And yet I am.

“None of your business,” she bites back. She’s much better at staying on task than I am right now. Her voice shakes, but she’s not afraid of me. She should be, but she’s not. My stomach tightens with desire.

“I thought we were getting to know each other, tesora,” I tease.

She eyes me slowly, those sad, dark pools traveling from my face down my chest. She lifts the wine bottle to her plump lips and takes a long sip as her eyes drink me in.

I lean forward and grab the glass of wine from the coffee table. I imagine that my lips touch the same place hers did as I take a sip from her discarded glass.

“I don’t want to talk,” she whispers, still watching me. “That’s not why I let you in.”

“What do you want to do?”

She licks her stained lips. I swallow a groan. “I want to…” Her words trail off as her eyes dip. I swear I can feel her attention on the tip of my dick, which is hard and uncomfortable trapped inside my shorts.

“I should apologize for my temper earlier,” I tell her.

“Were you really angry with me?”

“Yes.”

“Then, don’t apologize. Don’t lie.”

I wonder if she knows how much she’s told me in that simple request. “Fine. I won’t apologize for yelling at you through the wall or pounding on your door or all the things I’ve thought about you over the past two days.”

“Good. Now stand up.”

The wine glass is halfway to my mouth, but my hand freezes, and my eyebrow lifts. “Excuse me?”

“I know what I want to do,” she says in a deep, sultry voice.

“And what is that?”

“I want something real,” she says. I know she’s swallowed something, hiding some explanation from me. “I want to see you come,” she whispers as if she’s scared of the words.

I’m energized by them.

That admission should be dirty, but from this woman’s burgundy-tinted lips, they sound like a filthy command, and I like that. I like it a lot.

I watch her as I bring the glass in my hand to my lips. I drain the rest of the wine in a single gulp and set it on the table. And then I do as she commands. She’s watching me. I’m watching her. There’s something about this moment that I like more than I can understand. It’s the way she’s looking at me — assessing, scrutinizing, and lustful — combined with how small and vulnerable she actually is. This slow collection of moments feels powerful and heavy as it settles on my shoulders and in my chest. I’ve never felt anything so enormous and fragile at the same time.