Page 49 of Lady and the Hitman

Especially when I was alone.

Sometimes I heard footsteps. A shuffle in the brush. The creak of something metal. I never knew if it was another woman or one of the hunters. But I felt him. Not in the air. Not even in the trees.

Inside me.

My body knew Ronan before my eyes ever would.

The waiting was exquisite torture.

Every breath, every cautious step, was laced with the possibility that he might be around the next corner. That this moment—this ache—might break into something I couldn’t control. That the sharp edge between predator and prey might blur and shift until I didn’t know which I was.

I slipped behind a dense wall of palms, my heart pounding—not from fear, but from the unbearable ache low in my belly. The quiet was thick here, muffled by greenery and the heavy breath of nighttime humidity. I pressed my back against a tree, tilted my head to listen.

Nothing.

And yet my skin prickled.

God, I wanted him.

So much I could barely breathe with it.

I closed my eyes, chest rising and falling in shallow rhythm. My hand slipped beneath the waistband of my shorts. Just enough to feel the heat of me. The wetness.

I wasn’t touching for release—I was touching to to imagine.

His hands on my hips, strong and unyielding.

His breath at my neck.

His voice in my ear, telling me what to do.

How to open.

How to beg.

I bit my lip hard, stifling the soft gasp that rose in my throat.

There was something filthy about it—standing here in the dark, surrounded by the scent of animals and earth and wild things, and losing myself to the thought of him.

To the idea of being claimed. Possessed.

My fingers circled once—slow, tentative—and then stopped.

No.

Not yet.

I wanted it, but I wanted it from him.

I wanted to be held down and praised and ruined, all at once. I wanted his mouth on me, his throbbing cock inside me, his voice breaking apart while he made me his.

The restraint made it worse.

The ache sharper.

And still I ran.

Not always fast. Not in fear. But with purpose.