Page 47 of Reaper's Desire

"Yes, I do." She reaches out again, this time placing her hand on my arm, her fingers curling around the taut muscle there. I can feel the heat of her palm through my shirt, my pulse jumping under her touch. "I know exactly what I'm saying. And I know you're lying when you say it's a mistake."

"Isabelle." Her name comes out as a warning, but it sounds more like a plea.

"Just admit it," she says softly. "Admit that you want me. That you're not keeping your distance because it's the smart thing to do, but because you're scared of what will happen if you don't."

"I'm not scared."

She tilts her head up, meeting my eyes. "Liar."

The accusation hangs in the air between us, sharp and undeniable. She's calling my bluff, pushing me to acknowledge what we both know is true. And I can't. Because if I admit it—if Ilet myself acknowledge how badly I want her—I won't be able to maintain the distance I need to keep her alive.

And I'll do something that, if she ever knows the truth, she'll never forgive me for.

I don't know why that matters so much.

"I need to shower," I say abruptly, pulling away from her touch. "Stay in the room. Don't answer the door for anyone."

"Julian—"

"I mean it, Isabelle. Don't open that door."

I grab a change of clothes from my bag and lock myself in the bathroom before she can say anything else.

—

The bathroom is small and cramped, with barely enough room to turn around. The shower is a plastic stall with a handheld nozzle and water pressure that's probably terrible, but I don't care. I just need space. Distance. A locked door between me and the woman who's slowly destroying every defense I've spent fifteen years building.

I turn on the water and strip off my clothes, not bothering to wait for it to warm up. The cold spray hits me like a shock, but I welcome it. Maybe it'll clear my head. Maybe it'll wash away the memory of her hand on my chest, her voice in my ear, her eyes looking at me like she wants to eat me alive as badly as I want to do the same thing to her.

But it doesn't work.

I stand under the spray as it gradually warms, my forehead pressed against the tile wall, and all I can think about is her. She called me a liar, and she's right. I'm lying about more than she knows—who I am, why I'm here, what I'm doing. I'm lying aboutfar more than just not wanting her, and if she knew the truth, she wouldn't want me, either.

She'd never look at me the way she did in that hotel in Ibiza again. Not even the way she looks at me now, with irritation and amusement and more often than not, lust. She'd hate me.

And she'd be right to.

I can't fuck a woman I'm supposed to kill. I wouldn't have touched her in the first place, if I'd known. I wouldn't have…

Are you sure about that?I think of the chemistry between us when we were pulled together on that dance floor, the way my body lit up like it was recognizing something it was meant to fit with. The way I came undone with her, without constraints or inhibitions. I don't know if I've ever been so free with someone.

But if I'd known… surely I would have kept my distance. Done my job.

I shake my head, running my hands through my wet hair. I should be focused on the contract, on tracking down who ordered the hit and finding a way to neutralize the threat. On keeping us both alive long enough to figure out how we possibly get out of this.

Instead, I'm thinking about how she tasted. How she sounded when she came. How tight and perfect she felt wrapped around my cock. I'm so hard it fucking hurts, just from her standing near me and her hand on my chest. She makes me need to come more than anyone else ever has, with a ferocity that startles me every time. I've neverachedthe way I do, just from thinking about her.

My hand moves to my erection before I can stop myself. The touch sends a jolt of pleasure through me that's almost painful in its intensity.This is pathetic.I'm a professional. I've killed more people than I can count. I've walked into situations that should have gotten me killed and walked out without a scratch. I don't lose control. I don't let desire compromise my judgment.

But here I am, jerking off in a shitty hotel bathroom while the woman I'm supposed to be protecting is in the next room, after I just behaved like a cold bastard who doesn't want her. She has no idea how much I want her. How the wanting is eating me alive.

I wrap my fingers around my length and stroke once, slowly, and the sensation makes my knees weak. I brace my other hand against the tile wall to steady myself, water cascading over my shoulders, steam filling my lungs. I press my thumb against my cockhead, smearing the pre-cum around, fingers stroking as I imagine I'm feeding my cock into her mouth, feeling that perfect, hot wetness wrap around me.

I think about Ibiza, the first night when I didn't know who she was, when she was just a beautiful stranger who made me feel something I hadn't felt in years… if ever before. The way she moved beneath me, the sounds she made, the way her nails dug into my back when she came. The way I fucked her over and over, like I couldn't get enough. I fucked her all night, and I still wanted more.

My other hand clenches against the tiles, remembering pinning her wrists over her head, the way she moaned when I bit her. The way her throat felt under my hand. How she came, quivering, on my cock while I had her life in my hands, the thrill of it pushing her over the edge.

What would it be like tobewith a woman like that? A woman who can give herself over to the darkest parts of her being, craves that kind of sin? I've never told a woman I was with what I do, who I am. There's never been anyone I could trust with it. But that… the way Isabelle responded to my hands around her throat, makes me wonder what she'd do if she knew I was a killer.