Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 66515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
I shove against him again. “Let me go. Let me go.”
He hesitates, making a frustrated sound, but he lets me twist away from him. “Fuck,” he curses, turning away from me and running a hand through his hair before he turns to face me. “I was on assignment,” he says. “I needed a cover. You were an in, but you became so much more. I don’t get personal, Ashley, but you, you were personal from the moment I met you.” He walks to the couch, pulls his gun from behind his back, sits down, and places it on the table. “It’s loaded. Take it.” He looks at me. “But don’t shoot me until I make sure you’re safe.”
I’m angry again. I’m so many things I can’t name right now, and adrenaline drives me forward. I round the coffee table and stand across from him. “Why would a self-proclaimed killer protect me?”
“Because I love you, and I don’t love anyone. My job might have been a lie, but nothing else between us was.”
I hug myself. I want to believe him. My God, I so want to believe him. I want to just be with him, but how can I? “The stories they told me. The stories—”
“Lies. I did not betray my country. I gave everything for my country. I swore I would never love for my country. And I didn’t until you. Take the gun. If it will make you feel safer, take the gun.”
“I don’t want the fucking gun. I want you to stop lying to me.”
“I did. The minute I told you I was a killer.”
“Stop saying that.” I pick up the gun and point it at him. “Stop saying that!”
He stands now and walks around the coffee table. He’s so damn big, so damn agile, but I don’t run. I’m done running. I’m here. It’s not like I can just walk out the door unless I shoot him. We turn to face each other, and I again point the gun at him. He steps closer, pressing the gun to his chest as he had at my apartment. “I was, I am, an assassin for the CIA, and I never missed a target. The people who will come for you, who are coming for us, are my equals. I am what stands between you and them.” He reaches down and covers the gun with his hand, but he doesn’t try and take it. “If I was going to kill you, you’d be dead, so decide now: are you going to live with me or die without me? Because that’s what this comes down to.”
I stare at him, searching his handsome face, looking into those dark brown eyes, and I believe him. I believe him because I always sensed this in him. I knew. I’m a smart person who knew, and yet, I stayed with him, I craved him. I loved him. I let go of the gun. “What now?”
He sets the gun on the table, and the next thing I know, he’s dragging me to him, his hand sliding to cup my neck. “This,” he rasps softly.
His mouth closes down on mine, a deep slide of tongue follows, and I feel that lick clear to my toes. I tell myself to resist, but I can’t. I really can’t. He’s still the man I fell in love with, he’s still the man I was going to marry, to call my husband. And the truth is that I was terrified that he was dead. I was terrified that I would never see him again. Suddenly, all I want is this moment, all I want is to feel him, to find the familiar in him, in us. I melt into the kiss, but I am no submissive. I demand he answer me. I demand he show me how real this is, how real we were. I need to know. I need to know now.
He deepens the kiss, his fingers tangling into my hair, and this time, there is more than hunger in his kiss. This kiss is possessive, almost desperate, and I answer his demand in every way. His hands move to slide under my sweater, warm and familiar, and when he would pull it up, I catch his wrist, my words rasping out breathlessly. “This means nothing,” I warn. “I still hate you.”
His eyes darken. “You can still shoot me.”
“I might.”
“Then I guess I better give you a reason not to.” He kisses me and drags the sweater over my head, and damn him, I don’t stop him this time. I let him. I want him.
“You owe me this,” I say. “That’s all this is.”
“Then I better do it right,” he says, unhooking my bra and dragging it between us and then away. His gaze rakes over my breasts and nipples before he’s molding them to his chest, his mouth back on mine. I don’t even know how it happens, but I end up on the floor on top of a fluffy white rug, and we’re both naked. He’s pressing inside me, stretching me, pulling me close, the fire crackling beside us, the world dark except for the here and now. There’s a desperation between us. I feel it in him. I do. There is nothing about the here and now with this man that feels fake.