The Executioner (Professionals 10)

“Is it?” I asked as my hand slid across her lower back, watching and feeling as she arched instinctively to the touch, her breasts pushing more firmly against my chest as she did so. “Or is it maybe the part where I do this?” I asked as my hand slid up from her wrist, and there was no mistaking the slight tremble that moved through her as my fingertips grazed her arm, her shoulder, then the side of her neck to angle her head up as mine lowered down.

Her whole body jolted as my lips sealed over hers. The motion was followed by another shiver, this time one that made her whole body tremble as my arm wrapped around her lower back, crushing her body to mine as my lips pressed harder, demanding more.

Which she gave.

Her lips were only passive for the barest of seconds before they were responding.

A low, throaty moan escaped her as my hands slid down her back, sinking into her ass hard, then pulling up until she wrapped her legs around my waist as I started moving away from the edge of the ladder, going over to one of the chaise lounges and lowering down with her on top of me.

My cock hardened as she let out surprisingly soft and feminine mewling noises as my teeth nipped her lower lip, as my tongue moved inside her mouth to toy with hers.

Feeling me pressing against the juncture of her thighs had another shiver moving through her even as her hips shifted so my cock pressed against her more fully.

I didn’t really need more encouragement than that, did I?

My hands grabbed her ass harder, using it to glide her body against mine as my lips swallowed her steadily increasing moans as my cock rubbed against her clit.

Her hips did another glide and her whole body shook hard as the orgasm slammed through her system, catching—I think—the both of us off-guard with its suddenness and intensity, leaving Shawn crying out against my lips.

She seemed to recover quickly, her lips moving against mine again for a long moment before she broke away, placing her hand on my shoulder and pushing away as she slid off my lap, leaving her leaning over me.

“I hope you enjoyed that,” she told me, gaze cold even if her voice was still bedroom-sexy. “Because it is never going to happen again,” she told me, then turned and walked away, leaving me hard and aching for release.

And sure of one thing.

It was absolutely going to happen again.

And more.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Shawn

What the fuck was that?

I slammed and locked my bedroom door before leaning against it, my hands covering my face like I could hide from the truth of what had just happened.

I’d dry-humped my kidnapper.

“Oh, my God,” I groaned, letting out a whimpering noise that only reminded me of some other sorts of noises I’d just made while kissing the man who was currently holding me in an over-water villa in a foreign country against my will.

And I’d let him grab me, then kiss me.

As if that wasn’t enough, I’d ridden the man.

I had an orgasm with him.

To cut myself a little bit of slack, it had practically come on without warning—a testament to the fact that I hadn’t been with a man in longer than I cared to think about. My body was needy, desperate. It was, you know, biological. I’d barely had any control over myself.

And, to be fair, I did have a long track record of only wanting to fuck the kinds of guys my mind told me to stay way the hell away from. If he looked like he would fuck up my life, that was my type, that was who made my body hum.

Bellamy Whatever-His-Last-Name was someone who could irreparably fuck up my life.

Because now I remembered.

I remembered the night before. Some of the details from earlier in the day were still blurry. I had no idea how the hell I’d gotten to Brandon Adams’s house, or even how I’d managed to slip in. My memories seemed to start with me creeping my way through the kitchen, making my way toward the study where I knew I could find him thanks to the sound of his glass decanters clinking as he had what had to be his third or fourth glass for the night.

But it was all back.

The gunshot.

The hand grabbing me.

That seemed to be what brought the memories back, actually.

The way he’d grabbed my wrist to steady me when I stumbled was a lot like the way he’d grabbed me to drag me along with him through the house and into the underground tunnel to escape the security.

He’d been there.

He’d seen what I’d done.

He was the one person in the world who could point a finger to me in a lineup and say, “Yeah, that’s her. She’s the one who murdered Brandon Adams.”