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I stare, wondering how far in that folder she got and if it triggered her memory. I fucking hope not. I don’t want her to remember me, because I’m not her hero like she always thought. I’m her demon, her devil, dragging her to hell, but her eyes are clear, and there’s a dare written in them as she watches me, not recognition.
I relax slightly, putting my gun away as I glare at her. “No, you are not. Now get out before I call Alaric.”
“You won’t.” She shrugs as she stands, my shirt hanging to mid-thigh. She looks so good in it my brain shorts-circuits until she moves before me, her tight nipples pressing against the shirt.
“Are you naked under there?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
“Would you like to find out?” she purrs, reaching down to lift the shirt, so I stumble away, pressing my back to the table to contain myself as she chuckles. She picks up the folder again and bends over the table, giving me a tantalizing view of her peachy bare ass.
Fuck!
“Like I said, I’m going to help you.” She looks over her shoulder at me, her eyes sparkling. “You can’t get close to these people, you look too old, but me? I can.”
CHAPTER9
Zoey
He grabs the folder from me and turns away, refusing to look at me. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he finally responds.
“Yes I do. It’s a pedophile ring run out of foster care, right? It’s pretty obvious, and you’re going to kill them. There’s only one catch. There is no way you can get close to these assholes. No offense, but you look to be exactly what you are, a killer. But me?” I flutter my lashes as he glances back at me and purposely pout my lips. “I’ll be able to infiltrate that bitch no problem. I can be young and innocent. Would you like to see?” I can’t resist flirting with him, loving his clenched jaw and flashing eyes.
“Get out.” Each word is snarled. “And take my shirt off.”
“Your shirt? Are you sure?” I ask, frowning.
“Now,” he orders, his chest heaving in anger as he glares at me.
I shrug, playing dumb. “Okay.” I reach for the hem and rip it over my head, hearing him swear as I drop it to the floor and stand naked before him. I want to tell him how it was almost too easy to get in here, how I lay in his bed and touched myself and stole his clothes just to smell him.
For a moment, we just stare at each other, his eyes momentarily refusing to drop to my body before he gives in. They slam shut as he scrubs at his face, grabbing the shirt on the floor and throwing it at me. “Put it on and get out.” To my amusement, he practically runs away from his kitchen.
I just stare after him, grinning. I put the shirt on because it’s warm and comfy, but I don’t leave. I follow him upstairs to the sound of running water. I stop when I reach the bathroom in the middle of the hallway and let myself in.
“Need a hand with that?” I tease. His cock is hard as hell, bobbing under the spray. He ignores me and it, scrubbing at his body. I take my time drinking him all in, perving on him because, fuck, he’s magnificent.
He’s all hard lines and muscle. There isn’t an inch of fat on him. He has an incredible deep six pack and V pointing at his huge cock. His thighs are the size of my body, cut with muscle, and his ass is round enough that I want to bite it. His shoulders are thick, and my fingers curl, wanting to grip them as he pounds into me.
Gray is a fucking masterpiece, scars and all—and he has a lot.
I guess I should expect it considering his line of work, but it doesn’t stop me from wondering how he got each and every one. I wonder who Gray was before he became a hitman, not that it really matters since all I care about is who he is now and how I feel when I’m around him—free.
The need I have for adrenaline is addictive. He pushes my limits and makes me want more. He forces me to be myself—no facade, no games—and I fucking love it.
I feel alive around him.
My eyes trace as many of his scars as I can. They crisscross his back, almost looking like whip marks, deep and furrowed. There are smaller random scars dotted across his back, his chest, and even his thighs. There are more big ones, one practically on his pec near his heart, that look like bullet wounds.
He has tattoos intersecting some. The ink doesn’t hide them, but highlights them, like he refuses to be ashamed of them, and I love that.
“Finished?” he snarls. “Got your fill and feel disgusted now?”
For a moment, I just stare at him before sense comes back to me. I pull his T-shirt over my head once more and climb into the shower with him, seeing the weakness in him that he would never show anyone else. Pressing my head to his back, I trace the scars. He’s stiff against me before he shivers as I run my lips along them, kissing their raised edges. “You are magnificent, scars and all. They show what you survived. Too many people are untouched by this world, and they don’t know what it means to face death, but these? They show you do.” I kiss along his back, and his hands hit the wall, his body trembling, so I continue to kiss over his scars. I slide my hands to his chest, holding him to me, sensing this isn’t a side he’s comfortable with or used to showing anyone.
“Just like me. We’ve looked death in the eye, and we wear its scars.” I pull back, and he turns, looking confused, so I turn and lift my hair, showing him the wicked scar at the base of my skull. I’m nervous and scared, but then his thick, scarred fingers run across the wound so delicately, my eyes close.
“How?” His voice is hoarse.
“I had a brain tumor. It almost killed me. I came so close, I can still almost taste the other side. I used to go to bed every night wondering if I would wake up in the morning, and every time I got sick, I wondered if it would be my last.” I turn and meet his eyes. “You see now, Gray? You might be death personified, but that doesn’t scare me. I told you that death and I are old friends. It feels like home to me, and I can’t go back. I can’t be the perfect little girl they all want me to be. How can I when I know exactly what the darkness feels like? When I feel more at home fighting to survive and living every moment like it’s my last than I do in the sunlight?”
