Page 61 of Lady and the Hitman

“But you want to?”

“I already do.”

We sat in that moment, quiet except for the soft slosh of water, the distant hum of the city behind the glass, and the roar of my heart in my ears.

Eventually, the water cooled.

He stood and offered a towel.

I took it, stepped out, and let him wrap it around me. Not once did his hands stray. Not once did he try to sneak a grope or pull me close.

He just dried me gently, reverently.

When I looked up at him, I knew—this wasn’t just a delay.

It was an investment.

He wasn’t done with me.

He was just getting started.

And that was a problem.

Because I was sexually frustrated. Aching. The kind of ache that hummed in my bones and made my skin too tight. Every inch of me was still pulsing with want,and the fact that he hadn’t taken me—hadn’t even tried—was making it worse. Infinitely worse.

But as I followed him through the soft light of the suite, still wrapped in the towel he’d pressed to my skin with such care, something else stirred. A thought I wasn’t ready for.

This might not be just one night.

Not for him. And maybe—God help me—not for me, either.

I started thinking about tomorrow. About the flight back to Charleston. About how I’d walk into my townhouse changed in ways no one could see. How my mother would take one look at my flushed cheeks and ask if I was getting enough sleep. How my editor would raise a brow over coffee and ask if there was someone new. How my friends would roll their eyes at my distraction, at the way I couldn’t stop checking my phone for a message that might never come.

And what would I say?

He’s nobody.

A fling.

A man who kissed me in the dark and gave me a bath instead of an orgasm.

No.

If I was going to let this continue—and I already knew I was—I’d have to hide him. Keep him separate. A locked-room secret. Because no one else would understand.

He guided me back into the bedroom without a word.

The towel clung to my damp skin, soft and thick and warm from his hands. The suite felt different now—quieter, dimmer, more intimate. The kind of quiet thatwasn’t absence, but presence. Like the air itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to unfold.

But Ronan didn’t rush.

He turned down the bed like we were in some luxury hotel commercial—folding the covers back with precision, fluffing the pillows like he hadn’t just spent the last few hours hunting me through a fucking zoo.

“I can do that,” I murmured.

He glanced over his shoulder. “I know.”

But he kept doing it anyway.