Page 15 of Hit Man

His lips find mine, and his tongue claims possession of my own.

I’m trying to keep up, lifting my hips to meet him, wild with need, loving the feel of him inside me, the heat coming off of his skin, the aggressive way he’s kissing me like he’s trying to steal the air from my lungs.

Passionate, arrogant, relentless. A woman’s wet dream, a husband’s nightmare. Diego is all this, and more.

When he does come up for air, he delivers a second round of curses. I recognize a few dirtier ones.“Te voy a meter toda la pinga.”Take all of my cock.And “Quiero que te vengas.”I want you to come.

A total turn-on, especially how he says it, in a whiskey voice rich with gravel.

He releases my wrists.

I claw his back, wild and on an express train toward orgasmville.

He cups my ass and lifts me up and into his merciless thrusts.

I anchor my legs around his back, hold on, and cry out his name as I climax. “Diego.”

“Hang on tight,” he grinds out between his teeth. Pounding into me like a man hell-bent on breaking me in two. The bed shakes, the headboard bangs against the wall, and Diego stiffens above me as he comes inside me.

Then there’s a loud, cracking sound. Our only warning before the legs of the bed give out and the mattress goes crashing to the ground.

Diego rolls so we land on our sides, his knee between my thigh, my arm draped over his body.

I blink. “We broke the bed.”

“Guess you’ll be going home then.”

“No. I have business here. Though I’m not sure how I’ll explain this.”

Diego unwinds himself from my embrace. His hair falls across his forehead, messy and sexy as hell. There’s a fine sheen to his skin, damp from our fucking. The abs of his eight-pack flex as he stands, stretches, and assesses the damage done.

And for a flash of a second, he looks as bewildered as I suddenly feel.

Shaking his head, he stalks into the bathroom, then I hear water running. I sit up, my entire body aching.

It’s worth it. I swear I could climax just thinking about what just happened. He comes out of the bathroom. His hair is wet like he’s pushed his head beneath the faucet.

And as he pulls on his clothing, which is scattered on the floor next to the bed, he doesn’t say a word.

Not. A. Peep.

Right.

To add injury to insult, he refuses to look at me when I’m positive he’s more than aware of me watching him.

I hug my legs into my body, hiding my nakedness from him. Like he cares.

My eyes widen as he stalks to the door.

So much for me telling him when he can go.

Whatever. This guy is unpredictable, to say the least. Not my type. Not in my wheelhouse of familiarity. A fling. A wild, wonderful fling. An anticipated regret. Why sugarcoat it with words?

And at this point, I’m not even sure I like him.

He turns and says in a gruff voice, “Go home, Aubrey.” I watch the door as it closes behind him.

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