That night three years ago piqued my interest. The years I’ve spent studying her, learning all her ticks, turned obsession into the need for possession.
Holding the waistband of her pants, I lift my hand away from her sweet, responsive pussy, and cut right down the middle of the stretchy fabric, revealing black boyshorts that match the style of her bra, and just like it—in my way.
I slice through the cotton material, finally giving me full access to her body. Wasting no time and sparing no words, I hook her legs over my shoulders and bury my face into her pussy, already wet forme. The tang of her juices is a present for my taste buds.
“Fuck yes. That goddamn tongue—” she curses. “—this… it’s…” Tati’s words jumble as I growl, happily feasting. My tongue pumps in and out of her entrance before switching to lick her clit as I slide two fingers inside her.
Hooded lustful eyes, more green than their usual hue, plead… beg… demand I make her come.
I thrust my fingers deeper, wrapping my lips around her clit and rolling my tongue until I hit the right spot. Her body stiffens, her walls contracting, ready to tip over the edge.
“Holllyyy fuckinggg shhitttt,” Tati shouts, and I know she’s right where I need her.
Then, I pull my fingers out and lift my head, lowering her body until her back gently hits the floor.
Shock and disbelief form on her face as I stand.
Standing, I remove my jacket and cover her before turning and disappearing out the same window I arrived through.
The phantom taste of Tati’s pussy lingers across my tongue, punishing me for not allowing her to come last night—not allowing her juices to fill my mouth and drip down my chin.
In teaching her a lesson, I denied myself the pleasure of savoring her. But I’m no masochist, so I won’t make the same mistake tonight. As she hunts—I hunt.
“We’ll have a team on standby,” one of the three women with Tati states.
She nods, unloading the last of the items from the trailer. Her bike, an ATV, and all the fun toys an assassin can dream of. Throwing blades, hunting knives, garrotes, brass knuckles, and of course, Guilie. “I should be good,” Tati replies, inspecting each gun before holstering them—two on the sides of her waist, one in the back, and one strapped to her right thigh.
She’s a goddamn dream in her all-black form-fitted tactical suit. Images of her covered in the blood of prey as she sucks my dick flash, and I have to shake my head clear. Like a true gentleman, I’ll keep the hard-on for my lady. I'll save the ache for her.Always her.
Tati runs through a few more logistical plans with her team before they hop in the Jeep Wrangler they arrived in.
I wait, watching as she strategically hides weapons, the ATV, and her bike before inspecting the various traps she’s rigged on her hunting ground. An area that spans a radius of fifteen miles around the perimeter of the farm.
I smirk when holes she’s filled with spikes, nails, and broken glass come a hair’s breadth from some of my own traps.
Four hours later, I follow Tati back to the property she purchased three years ago. It looks no different than a rural countryside home. Far enough away to escape any suspicions Mikah would have.
“You can come out already,” she huffs. “I know you’re there.”
That’s my girl.
Her perception and awareness of her surroundings have sharpened to a level that I’m proud to say surpasses mine. It’s not surprising, given the organization she works for.
Keres is the Diamond Standard. They are invisible until it’s too late. And Tati is one of their top assassins.
Hopping from my perch, I lower my mask and grin. “Miss me, little fox?”
She furrows her brow—a dimple appearing when her lips thin.
She’s annoyed.
“What are you doing here? Any other night, I would relish in your company, but not tonight—it’s too important.”
Holding up a hand, I reply, “I mean no offense. And I completely understand why tonight’s so important for you—it’s important for me too.”
Shock registers in her green eyes, and before she can ask, I continue. “Griff Loomis, Fredrick Rogers, Jackson Wallace, and Mikah Gordon owe me a blood debt, and I’ve come to collect.” I don’t elaborate any further. Emi is still too fresh a wound.
Concern etches her features, her gaze softening, but only for a fraction of a second before the mask slides firmly back into place.
