Page 14 of Lady and the Hitman

Sandalwood, maybe.

I shook my head and turned away.

Not yet.

But it was close.

I could feel it.

I wandered back toward the bedroom, skin hummingwith tension, nipples tight beneath the cotton of my tank. Every sense felt heightened, like my body was tuning itself to a frequency I didn’t know how to speak aloud.

I had no idea how this would go. What it would feel like when he did show up. If he showed up. That was the worst part—the not-knowing. No confirmation. No countdown. Just that hollow, breathless wait.

All I’d given Alpha Mail was a short form. My address. A list of preferences, likes and dislikes, hard limits, soft ones. I told them my profession. I gave a few adjectives—bratty, defiant, curious. I told them what I couldn’t say out loud.

That was it.

It had felt like nothing. And too much. Not even enough for a dating profile, but enough to be chosen. Enough for him to know where I lived. What to do with me once he got here.

I knew nothing about him.

Zero.

He could be anyone.

The thought made my stomach twist.

There were a dozen ways this could end badly. Disappointment. Regret. Worse. But my fear wasn’t the kind that made you run—it was the kind that made you ache.

I sat on the edge of the bed and glanced at the drawer beside it. My vibrator was tucked inside, along with a bottle of lube and a half-used candle. I reached for the handle, then stopped.

No.

I wanted to save it.

All of it.

For him.

The arousal hadn’t gone anywhere—it was coiled low in my belly, warm and needy. But something about touching myself now felt … wrong. Like lighting a match before the fuse had been laid. I wanted to be empty for him. Ready. Starving.

Forbidden.

The thought made my breath hitch.

I stood and stripped the sheets off the bed. Washed them on the fastest setting. Put on a fresh set—white linen, still faintly warm from the dryer. I smoothed the corners like it mattered, like the state of the bed might change the way he touched me. Or how long he stayed.

I picked out candles. Lit three in the living room, one in the bedroom, one in the bathroom. I played music on low—something instrumental, no lyrics. I set out water on the nightstand like I was hosting a guest. I don’t know why. Ritual, maybe.

Then I stepped into the shower.

I shaved everything—legs, underarms, a delicate line along my bikini. Carefully, like I was offering up my skin for inspection. I used the lotion I usually saved for date nights or fancy dinners with visiting editors. The expensive stuff. Fig leaf and black pepper. I watched my hands move over my own body and imagined his hands following.

My thighs were slick with heat before I even stepped out of the steam.

Wrapped in a towel, I stood in front of the mirror and stared at myself.

Was this desperation?