Page 48 of Reaper's Desire

Of course, none of that matters, because I'm meant to beherkiller. Which, naturally, changes everything.

My grip tightens on my cock, and I stroke faster, the water hot against my skin, my breathing ragged. I think about what it would be like to have her again. To push her against the wall of this shower and fuck her until she can't remember her own name. To make her come so hard she forgets about the danger, forgets about the assassins hunting us, forgets about everything except the way I make her feel. I want to feel her clenching around me, that hot ripple as she comes on my length, feel her skin against mine.

I imagine making her beg, stripping off all those foolish fancy clothes, and tying her up, edging her until she's pleading and crying for release. I imagine what she'd do to me after I let her go, all nails and teeth, a feral cat that would fuck me until it killed me… and what a fucking way to go.

She might be the only woman I've ever met who could match me, and she's the one I can't ever have.

But I shove that thought away, as my heart clenches and stutters in response to it. Instead, I focus on the fantasy, the pleasure, the driving need to come that clenches every muscle in my body as my hand becomes a blur on my cock, hips thrusting as I fuck my fist and imagine it's her mouth, her pussy, God, her fucking ass. I wonder if anyone's fucked her there before, if I could be the first one to take it. To make the pretty, spoiled heiress beg while I thrust my cock into her ass and make her come while I fucked her there.

That does it. My strokes become more desperate, more frantic. The pressure builds at the base of my spine, coiling tighter and tighter until I can barely stand it. I brace my hand against the wall hard, water running down my face and chest as I fuck my own fist and imagine it's her body instead. My orgasm hits me like a freight train, pleasure slamming through my body so hard my knees nearly buckle. I come with a strangled groan, my release spilling over my hand and washing away in the spray.The sensation goes on and on, wave after wave of it, until I'm left gasping, my cock throbbing in my hand as my muscles slowly relax.

For a moment, I just stand there under the water, my forehead pressed against the tile, my chest heaving. The release should have helped, should have taken the edge off—given me some relief from the constant ache of wanting her.

But it doesn't. If anything, it makes it worse. Because now all I can think about is how much better it would have been if it had been her hand instead of mine. Her body, instead of my imagination. Her voice in my ear instead of the sound of water hitting tile. If I'd really been claiming her in every way possible instead of just picturing it while I jerked myself off.

I grit my teeth with frustration, scrubbing off with the cheap soap in the shower before turning off the water roughly and stepping out. I grab a towel and dry off, still tense despite the violent release.

When I turn toward the sink, my reflection in the fogged mirror is barely visible, just a dark shape with hard edges. It feels appropriate. That's all I am anymore—a weapon with a man's face, a killer who's forgotten how to be anything else.

Except when I'm with her. When I was with Isabelle, in bed, I remembered what it felt like to be human. To want something beyond the next job, the next kill, the next paycheck. To feel something other than the cold emptiness that's been my constant companion for so long.

And that's exactly why I can't touch her again. She won't want me if she knows the truth. And I've had enough loss to last me my entire life. I don't need any more.

I pull on sweatpants and a t-shirt, running my hand through my damp hair. The bathroom is still thick with steam, the air heavy and warm. I should stay in here longer, give her time tofall asleep, so I don't have to face her. But I can't hide in here forever.

I unlock the door and step out into the main room.

Isabelle is sitting on the edge of her bed, very much awake. She's changed into thin pajamas—silk, probably, knowing her—and her dark hair is loose around her shoulders. She looks up when I emerge, her green eyes fixing on me instantly.

"Feel better?" she asks. There's something knowing in her tone that makes heat crawl up the back of my neck.

"Fine."

"You were in there a long time."

I clench my jaw. "I needed to clear my head."

"Did it work?"

"No." I say it before I can think better of it. Her eyes widen slightly, and I see her throat move as she swallows.

"Julian." My name on her lips almost breaks my too-fragile self-control. "We need to talk."

"We've talked enough."

"No, we haven't." She stands up slowly, and I force myself to stay still, to not back away or close the distance between us. "You keep pushing me away. You keep telling me it's complicated, that getting involved would be a mistake. But I don't believe you."

I do my best to harden my expression. "You should."

"Why?" She takes a step toward me. "Why is it a mistake? Because of the danger? Because of whoever's trying to kill me? That doesn't make sense. If anything, that's a reason to?—"

"To what?" I cut her off, making my voice as cold and cruel as I can, sheer desperation forcing me to do whatever possible to get her to stop, before I make a mistake. "To fuck? To pretend like this is some kind of romantic adventure instead of a nightmare that could get us both killed?"

She flinches at my words. "I'm not pretending anything. I know how serious this is. I know people are trying to kill me. But that doesn't change the fact that you want me."

"Isabelle—"

"Don't." She holds up a hand, stopping me. "Don't lie to me again. You want me just as badly as I want you, and you're torturing us both by pretending you don't."