Page 89 of Hit Man

My orgasm hits me fast and dirty. And as I clench around him, milking him with my release, he angles his head back and watches me fall apart. I come harder, more intensely as I’m eaten up by his rich, intense, caramel-colored eyes.

“Me estás gustando,” he murmurs, pushing up into me and falling forward so our chests touch and his face is nuzzled against my neck. He stiffens and groans into my ear as a burst of warmth spreads inside of me.

We hold each other as we come down off the clouds. A pattern we’ve fallen into after sex, me in his arms and him as affectionate as a woman could hope after her world’s been spun topsy-turvy.

Seconds pass before Diego speaks. “That was a mistake.”

I gasp, hurt.

He lowers me onto my feet. Not caring to look at him, I retrieve my underwear from the floor. The purple thong he’d stolen from me and demanded I wear earlier, now ruined.

His wetness seeps down my inner thigh.

Like teardrops, only stickier.

A mistake?

Diego finishes adjusting his pants, scoops up the keys and manila envelope, and as if he hasn’t just insulted the hell out of me, as if he didn’t screw me bareback against the door and break my heart, takes my hand and presses the keys into my palm. “You can drive part of the way.”

“I’ll call a cab.”

He ignores me. “We’ll go for a drive before I drop you off.” Grabbing the handle of my bag, he ushers me out of the apartment.

And I’m happy to go.

But as we take the elevator down to the garage below, I realize something. What I thought was sex, wild and raunchy and oh-so filthy sex, is going to be hard to forget. But Diego, the man, the attentive lover, the dirty-mouthed initiator, the cuddler, the savior—because he did save me, several times—who has somehow, incredibly worked his way inside my heart, isn’t someone anyone ever forgets.

I stare at the doors of the elevator, already feeling the loss.

27

Aubrey

His motorcycle isn’t where we’d left it parked in the spot by the elevator bank in the garage beneath his building. But like Mexican tap water, I avoid any conversation with the man. I’m too upset. And after he drops me off at my new home, I might very likely throw up.

The envelope. The keys. It’s possible he sent his motorcycle out for repair.

I silently follow him to a classic 1980s red Camaro. He hands me the keys and opens the driver’s door. A peace offering? Is that what this is? Because it certainly feels like it, with him offering to let me drive when I get the funny feeling he’d rather I don’t.

He curses as he walks around the hood to the passenger’s seat.

With a sigh, I slide into the bucket seat. For an older car, the Camaro has a fresh, new-car smell. It’s immaculately kept, its leather dashboard shiny, its bucket seats firm and without tears or broken springs. “Your car?” I want to ask but don’t. What’s said has been said, what’s done has been done.

With great care, I pull out of the garage. “Turn left then take Coronado Boulevard East,” he says without a hint of emotion in his tone.

He hits a button on the visor and the garage door closes. He presses it three more times, setting a security alarm, I assume.

He gives me directions but we don’t converse. I drive down Coronado, turn right, and turn left, following along while taking one last, long hard look at him from beneath my eyelashes.

His hands rest on his thighs.

His long legs stretched out before him.

Him relaxed back in the seat, unaware of the devastation he’s causing.

That last-minute fuck against the door.

That wasn’t good-bye.