Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 114260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
That’s so hot. Oh, God, why is that so hot?
He strokes between my legs, then pumps two fingers into my core.
“Oh, God,” I moan. “But you do know what to do with those hands don’t you?”
“I do,” he says with a low chuckle. “Now repeat the rule before I take my hands away.”
“No,” I moan, rocking my hips against his hand. “Don’t go.” I’m panting. “Assassins… kill… with their heads… not their hands.”
“Good job. We don’t need brute force, though proficiency with a weapon works well. We need to be astute and on point, prepared to pull the trigger when the time is right. Taking a human life isn’t as easy as it sounds, because we’ve muted our responses to such things with video games and movies. It’s a hairline fracture we walk, and we always, always have to be alert, ready, and mentally prepared.”
I nod. “Understood.”
“Any numbskull with a knife can kill someone. To be a professional, you have to know your shit.”
He stops stroking, and my temper flares.
“Is that a rule, or are you just elaborating?” I say tightly, earning me another slap to the ass.
“Watch your tone of voice. You wouldn’t want to be punished by going to bed without your dessert, now, would you?”
Goddamn.
“No,” I say, as repentant as could be. He continues his perfect, brilliant stroking, until I’m panting and nearly begging him for more.
“Assassins trust no one.”
What an odd rule, considering he’s asked me to trust him over, and over, and over. Could it be that he’s gone so long without trusting anyone that he needs to know there’s still someone who can?
I moan at the feel of the head of his cock at my entrance. He swirls the hot tip through my swollen, slick folds, releasing a moan of his own.
“Assassins don’t get fancy,” he says. “This isn’t the movies. This is real life. We don’t use car bombs or poison fucking appetizers at a ball when a simple bullet or slit throat will do.”
“Got it.”
He shoves in me, a thrust that takes my breath away and makes ecstasy erupt in every damn cell. I moan, pushing back against him just to feel his thick, hot cock pulsing in me again.
“Fuck, baby,” he groans.
My fingers tighten on the headboard as he pumps his hips and makes little sparks of electricity dance across my skin.
“You’re so tight,” he whispers in my ear, as I near release.
“Is that another rule?” I lower my voice but have a hard time concentrating. “Be tight.”
His dark chuckle washes over me as my eyes flutter closed against the rush of emotion. “Don’t you let go,” he orders as he comes inside me, filling me with his hot release. I come when he does, giving in to the pressure and release that fills me as I shatter into ecstasy. “Don’t you ever fucking let go.”
We collapse on the bed, tangled in each other. His words echo in my ear.
They should make me feel special. Wanted.
Instead, I hear them as a threat.
What happens if I do?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Cain
“Boss.”
Joe’s pounding on the door to my bedroom. Violet’s wound in the sheets, her head on my chest and hair all around me. I extricate myself with a groan. The door’s locked, and it’s likely urgent.
Cursing, I tug on a pair of boxers and walk to the door. I yank it open. Joe stands on the other side with an apologetic look on his face.
“I’m sorry.”
“Have you ever tried texting? Fucking calling me?”
“Don’t kill him, Cain, your phone’s been off for hours,” Violet mumbles behind me.
“She’s right,” Joe says with a grimace. “I got a call from the Salem P.D. They’ve got a warrant for the arrest of that Robbins woman. Seems she’s been dabbling in counterfeit money.”
“Fucking hell.”
“Yeah.”
“Get Henri down there with Claude. Find out what you can. I can’t close this case today; Violet and I have a job to do.”
He nods, takes down some further instructions, then shuts the door. I turn to find Violet sitting up in bed, frowning at my phone.
“He is a persistent motherfucker, isn’t he?” she says teasingly.
“I only hire persistent motherfuckers.” I toss her a pair of jeans and tee. “Get dressed, woman. We’ve got work to do.”
She tosses off the blanket, stretches, and yawns. “Coffee on the road?”
“I’ll take you to Java Witch.”
In Salem, various restaurants and locales are named after witches, our signature mascot, one could say. Known for the infamous Salem Witch Trials, we now wear what should be shame like a badge of honor. Violet does love the Java Witch brew, though.
“Can I get one of those twisty cinnamon things, too?”
“Babe, get whatever the fuck you want.” She knows I don’t give a shit what she gets, but she still likes to ask me. For a ballsy woman, she’s fucking cute.
I sling my holster on and pack my favorite Ruger.