Page 43 of Stolen By the Hit Man

“When you decide to go back to Florida. I’m coming with you.”

“C-can you just do that?”

She gives a squeeze that nearly ends me.

“‘Course I can.”

Thrust.

“Oh…I…you can’t just say things like that…”

“I’m retired.” Harder thrust. “I can do whatever the fuck I want, and I want you.”

“Joaquin, what about…what about your family?”

Deeper, slower thrust.

God, the way she moans. The way she fucking grips. How am I still conscious?

“I don’t think you understand.”

“Wha…what don’t I understand?”

It’s getting hard to concentrate on my words now. I’m so close to coming.

“That if I have to choose, it’s always going to be you.”

“Baby,” she whispers.

I bury my face against her throat, inhaling the scent of her, as I come once more.

Chapter Twenty

Jasmyn

The situation with my clothes is becoming increasingly desperate the longer we’re together. Fortunately, Joaquin finds some old sweatpants and a tee-shirt in a pile of clean laundry in the hallway. It fits fine, and I don’t ask any questions.

I can’t wait until the investigation is over at the house where Braydon kept me. I want my phone and suitcase back.

We get a few more precious moments alone in the kitchen, sharing the dregs of a gallon of vanilla ice cream as we wait for Jefferson.

I bring it up first. “So. Florida.”

“Yep.”

“Gators. Humidity. Hurricanes. You think you can handle it?”

“Sure. I’ve spent my fair share of time down there.”

I swallow and try not to look judgmental. “For a job?”

“The occasional job, yeah.”

“Kill anyone in Tampa?”

He sets down his spoon and bows his head. What is he doing? Is he praying?

No, not praying. He looks up at me with the seriousness of a judge. “Yes.”