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I drive through the gate and down the waterfront, the waves lapping to our right, reflecting the moon and the stars back up at the sky.
“You need to tell me your story, Jett,” Juliana whispers. “How you became a hitman, why you became a hitman … Your life before we met. I want to know. I want to know you.”
I chuckle, shaking my head.
“What?” she says, the shadow of a sassy smile on her lips. “Why are you laughing?”
“It’s just that normally if a woman said some shit like that to me, I’d run a mile. But with you, Juliana, I don’t feel that urge.”
“And that’s funny?”
“Yeah,” I smirk. “Because it turns out I’m not as cold as I thought I was.”
She smiles fully now, a glorious display stretching across her face, the sort of brave smile that will instill our children with courage and hope, and love.
“So, what’s your story?” she says.
“Just like that?” I chuckle. “You want me to tell you my whole life story?”
“Well, the highlights,” she says, still smiling despite everything.
On a whim, I reach over and stroke my hand along her cheek, feeling the heat where the tears have dried.
“I’ll tell you if you agree to something for me,” I growl.
“What?” she whispers, twitching as though she doesn’t know whether to move toward or away from my touch.
“No, Juliana,” I growl. “You don’t get to ask what. You just have to agree. Whatever I want, you’ll do it. Do you understand?”
She lets out a panting breath, the sort of noise she needs to be careful making around me. The base of my manhood aches and I’m so stiff my length is pressing against the inside of my pants urgently, as though any moment I’m going to explode and tear the zipper in half.
“Okay,” she whispers. “I’ll do whatever you want me to, Jett.”
“Good girl,” I growl, driving into the warehouse.
Chapter Six
Juliana
I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, expecting to wake up on my bed any second now. I felt like we were in a hazy dream all night, but it became super surreal when we drove into the warehouse, into a garage elevator, and then went down and down and came here, to an underground apartment.
It’s nothing flashy, but it’s bigger and more modern than mine. There’s a kitchen with an island and fancy-looking equipment, a living room with a flat-screen TV and a large corner couch, a bedroom with a big double bed and silk sheets, a bathroom, and an ensuite with a large bathtub and a waterfall shower.
I’m in the ensuite now, washing my hands, staring into my wide, shell-shocked eyes. I splash some cold water on my face, wondering if that will jolt me awake.
But I’m already awake.
I’m being hunted.
I’m in an underground safe-house apartment with a man I only met tonight.
And yet I feel like I know him like we were meant to meet tonight, even if that sounds a hundred shades of crazy.
I agreed to do whatever he wants me to if he’ll tell me who he is, not just the fact that he’s a hitman, but his story, his soul.
But I don’t know what he wants from me.
He touched my face, cradled it like a lover.
He said he’d never lie to me.
Does that mean he wants me the same way I want him, achingly, sexually, wholly?
I wipe my face on the clean towels from the rack and then walk into the bedroom, finding Rebel curled up under the pillows where I left her. It’s gone midnight now, and I can tell she’s tired. Even so, she opens her eyes and makes as if to pad over to me when I enter the room.
“It’s okay, girl,” I tell her. “Go back to sleep.”
She yawns and lays her tiny head on her tiny paws with a huff.
I walk into the living room, stunned by how much like a real apartment this feels. The only difference is the eerie feeling brought by the lack of windows. We could be in some post-apocalyptic fallout shelter for all the light and access to the outside world.
Jett is sitting on the couch, the laptop seeming absurdly small as he moves his fingers over the keys, typing with a speed and skill I wouldn’t have expected from such a large man.
He’s taken off his jacket and bow-tie, his shirt unbuttoned at the top. The material is slightly see-through, giving me a look at his bare skin, throbbing, freaking pulsating with muscles.
I walk over to the armchair next to the couch and sit down, letting out a shaky breath. His eyes are fixated on the laptop screen, and I sense he doesn’t want to be disturbed.
I try not to let my mind do silly things as I sit there, like take his manly permeating scent and conjure up crazy images with it, like him wrapping his bearish arms around me and cuddling me close, and then growing savage as he tears apart my clothes and takes a step backward.
