The Executioner (Professionals 10)

I was starting to understand him.

Which was only complicating things.

Because my body and mind were starting to agree that he was kind of a good guy. And since my mind and body were never in agreement about what type of guy was right for me, it was making weird shit creep into my head.

Shit like how our demons seemed to get along well together.

Or how being serial-killing vigilante justice seekers was the new power couple dynamic.

Jesus Christ.

What the hell was wrong with me?

We weren’t a couple.

We were never going to be a couple.

No matter how much we may have had in common.

“So, are you going to tell me where we’re going, or…” I said as we made our way into the jet.

“Or,” Bellamy said, shooting me a smirk.

“You’re ridiculous. But I’m half-willing to forgive it since I am about to spend the next few hours having a torrid affair with your fancy coffee maker,” I told him, dropping down into one of the bucket seats, and strapping myself in.

“You have a fancy coffee maker at your place.”

“You checked out my coffee maker?” I asked as he dropped down in the seat across from me.

“Well, I was looking for your diary. I thought it was the most likely place I would find it.”

“Cute.”

“You know what I didn’t find?” he asked.

“What?”

“My competition.”

“Your comp—“ I started, trailing off when I got his insinuation. “Well, that’s because there is no competition,” I said, watching as he puffed up a bit. “You don’t vibrate at ten different levels of intensity,” I added, getting a smile from him, eyes dancing.

I mean, the truth was, a vibrator was good when you just needed to get off, when you were just so damn horny that you couldn’t think straight anymore. But it wasn’t really a replacement for sex.

To me, there was no comparison.

Sure, my vibrator might be able to get me to an orgasm faster, but it wasn’t just about that for me. I wanted that excitement, that anticipation. I wanted the touch and the sounds.

I mean, my vibrator couldn’t exactly dirty-talk me, could it? It couldn’t run its hand down my spine or pull my hair or spank my ass or come with me.

Given the choice, I would choose sex with a partner over solo good vibes.

But Bellamy really didn’t need to know that.

And he damn sure didn’t need to know that sex with him was probably the best I’d had.

Yeah, no.

That was dangerous information to let a man be privy to.

Especially a man like Bellamy.

Who was dangerous enough already.

In more ways than one.

“You should go lie down,” I said a while later after he yawned for the fifth time in as many minutes.

“I would be a terrible host if I did that,” Bellamy said. “You take the bed.”

“You need it more than I do,” I insisted.

“I insist.”

“We’re not fighting over a stupid fucking bed,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Go get some sleep,” I demanded, waving behind me toward the bedroom.

“If you insist,” he said, giving my shoulder a friendly squeeze as he walked back.

It was a chaste touch, damnit.

Something friends or even co-workers might do.

But you couldn’t convince my body of that.

It damn near burst into flames at the touch.

I was still frustratingly turned on an hour or so later as I felt myself drifting off to sleep sitting up in the chair.

Before I could fully pass out, though, I felt my belt unclipping, and arms scooping under my knees and my back, lifting, and pulling me against a familiar wide chest.

“Put me down,” I grumbled, though, admittedly, I barely managed to put any kind of force behind the words. Because whether I wanted to feel that way or not, it felt good to be held by a man, to be carried around like I was small and precious, even if those were not words anyone would use to describe me.

I wasn’t sure I’d ever actually been carried by a man before. Unless Bellamy carrying me when I’d been passed out on the drugs he gave me counted. Which, obviously, it didn’t.

I liked it more than was safe. From an emotional perspective.

It was dangerous for me to like anything else about this walking red flag of a man.

“I can walk,” I insisted as he carried me through the kitchen galley.

“Sure you can,” he agreed, and it was right then that I realized he’d not only taken off his jacket, but his shirt as well.

“I was fine where I was,” I claimed.

“Mmhmm,” he agreed as he shouldered open the bedroom door.

“I’m not fucking you again,” I added as he lowered my ass to the mattress.

And just like that, he froze—arms still around me, hair disarmingly disheveled from sleep, a sweet, lazy smile on his face. “As much as I’d love to fuck you again, Shawn, I’m just bringing you here to sleep.”