I store the emotion somewhere deep down. I am a cold-blooded killer. I don’t care about anything.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“My home,” she says, and eyes me.
It tastes bitter to me. I put on a smile to keep my real emotion from showing on my face.
I recognize the second bodyguard behind the wheel as we enter her car. It’s a thirty-minute ride to reach her home, and she doesn’t say a word.
I watch her the entire time.
I try to plan and think, but I can’t.
So I just watch her.
We reach her brownstone, and I am neither searched nor checked for anything, and relief spreads through me. Because if I had been searched, I would’ve needed to kill all of them instantly, and with Hannigan as a very trained professional, it would end badly for me.
Lilian hesitates for one second before she opens the door, and my stomach plummets, because I fear she might have changed her mind on the search. But then, she opens the door and lets me in.
I am so curious about how she lives. Not that I care much about interior design, but how a person lives reflects their personality, and I can’t completely grasp her.
I step into the house, and its cleanliness amazes me. No clutter, no nothing. Just free space with the most necessary essentials, like a black leather couch. No art on the walls, no rugs, no plants, not so much as a candle for decoration. The open kitchen, all black, reveals a clean surface, as if it had never been used.
My eyes take in every inch, and I can feel Lilian's eyes on me.
“It’s very…clean,” I say, because I like it, Ella, however, doesn’t. “Almost sterile.”
Lilian snorts.
“Exactly,” she says. “Sit down there,” she adds and points to the couch. “Drink?”
“No,” I say, and don’t do what she said. Instead, I walk over to her and push her back into the wall, my hand wandering over her forehead to push it back.
She gasps as I kiss her throat and neck down to her collarbone and trail back up with my tongue.
“The only thing I want is you,” I say, words pouring from my mouth. Words I shouldn’t say.
“You—“ she begins in her desperate attempt to regain control, but I don’t let her.
“Shut up,” I tell her. “Let me take care of you.”
She wants to fight me over it. Her mouth opened, reproachful eyes.I know,I tell her in my mind.
“You wanted me to make you come three times. We’re two short of that,” I say and add, “I’ll do everything for my mistress,” to appease her. The effect is immediate. She inhales deeply, closes her eyes, and lets me.
My hands trail over her body. The material of her suit is something I have never felt before—it is so soft and yet thick and firm. I need to feel more of her than the fabric allows. I need to feel her skin. Her body. I want to scent and taste her.
My hands brush back her suit, and it drops to the floor with a thud. The silken shirt caresses my skin as I trail my finger over it, opening the buttons.
Only then do I loosen the ascot and slip it off her with a fast tug. The ascot slaps through the air, and she twitches slightly. Oh, how I love to play with the senses.
Her open shirt reveals a black-and-beige laced bra, and I can finally touch her skin.
My hands caress over her sides up her shoulder to open the shirt. My fingertips feel as if I am brushing over rose leaves; never in my life have I felt skin as soft as hers, and I’d love nothing more than to see blood running over it. See it. Tasteit. Smear it.
I kiss down between her breasts and down her belly into a high kneeling position.
I glance up to see her reaction as I fumble open her pants. I don’t slide them down; they rest beautifully on her hips.
