Page 89 of Lady and the Hitman

Didn’t need to.

Because the next moment, his hands were on my hips, and then I was off the ground, spun and pinned to the thick wood post of the balcony before I could breathe.

His mouth found mine with a growl. Not a kiss—a claiming. Tongue, teeth, heat. One hand gripped the back of my neck while the other held me in place, my spine arched, my legs already parting without a single order.

“Fuck,” he muttered into my mouth. “You taste good.”

“Ronan—”

“I waited too long,” he said, his voice raw against my skin. “Too damn long to have you like this.”

His hands slid down, caught the backs of my thighs, and hoisted me higher. I wrapped around him instinctively, my heels dangling, my breath ragged.

And then—God help me—he bit my collarbone.

Not hard. But enough to mark.

Enough to make me feel owned.

“I don’t share,” he growled. “You know that, don’t you?”

I nodded, dizzy. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

“You don’t share.”

He dragged his mouth down the curve of my throat. “Good girl.”

The words hit me like lightning.

A jolt of heat flashed through me, sharp and instant. It started low—deep in my belly—and spread like fire, licking up my spine and down my thighs until every inch of me felt flushed and hypersensitive. My skin prickled. My pulse fluttered. An ache between my legs pulsed with urgency.

God, I was wet.

And not just aroused in some passing, fleeting way. Ithrobbedfor him. My panties were soaked, clinging to me with a kind of cruel persistence. Each step, each shift, sent friction rippling through me, teasing and tormenting.

He hadn’t even touched me where I needed him most, and I was already unraveling.

The heat in his eyes told me he knew. That he could sense the tension vibrating in my limbs, the way my breath hitched, the way I pressed my thighs together for relief I wasn’t going to get—not yet.

My nipples tightened beneath the thin fabric of my dress, each brush of air like a secret caress. His mouth lingered against my neck, breath hot and steady, and I shivered at the delicious contrast of his control and my need.

I wanted to drop to my knees. I wanted to climb into his lap. I wanted to beg. But I didn’t move. Not because I didn’t crave it—because Idid. So much it scared me. But something deeper held me still.

It was him.

His presence. His patience. The unbearable way he made me feel like he had all the time in the world … and I didn’t. That I was already his, and he was simply deciding how to take me.

I felt alive.

Not just sexually—but wholly. Utterly.

Like I was beingseen. Known. Owned.

And when he finally carried me—lifted me like I weighed nothing, like I belonged to him—my heart stuttered again.

He moved toward the railing—toward thefucking railing—and I felt the breeze hit the backs of my thighs as he set me down on the wide banister. The wood was smooth, still warm from the sun, and I instinctively looked toward the marsh beyond, the water flickering gold, the air thick with humidity and exposure.