This woman, who claimed her life was boring, is currently the most interesting thing that’s happened to me in months.
The smart play is to wake her up. Get her out. Go back to work.
But there’s something about the way she’s lying there—completely vulnerable, completely unaware that she’s in the same room as a man who kills for a living—that stops me.
She shifts in her sleep, and the hoodie rides up even further. I can see the soft curve of her waist now, the way her skin looks pale and warm in the dim light. Her breathing is slow, steady. Peaceful.
Then she starts snoring. Soft at first, then louder. Like a drunk kitten with sinus problems.
When was the last time I saw someone sleep like that? Without fear. Without checking exits or sleeping with one eye open.
Never.
I reach out without thinking, fingers almost touching that soft skin at her waist—
She groans softly in her sleep and shifts, rolling toward the edge.
Suka.The smart thing would be to let her fall again. Wake her up. Drag her outside and let her figure out her own mess.
Instead, I move.
I scoop her up before she can hit the floor. She’s completely limp in my arms; dead weight, but the warm, breathing kind. One hundred and thirty-eight pounds, I estimate automatically. I’ve carried enough bodies to know weight by feel, but this is different.
Dead bodies are awkward. All angles and resistance, fighting gravity and rigor mortis. Cold. Stiff.
She’s soft everywhere a woman should be soft. Her head lolls against my shoulder, hair spilling over my arm like silk. Her thighs are full and heavy against my forearm, her breasts pressed against my chest through that ridiculous hoodie. Warm. Alive. Built how I like my women, with curves that fill a man’s hands and hips made for gripping.
She murmurs something unintelligible against my neck, her breath warm on my skin, and my cock responds involuntarily.
Fucking hell.
I carry her toward the bedroom, noting how perfectly she fits in my arms. Not too small, not trying to be something she’s not. Just… right. The kind of woman built to be held down and thoroughly fucked until she forgets her own name.
I push open the bedroom door with my shoulder. The room is sparse, just a bed, a dresser, blackout curtains. Functional. Temporary.
I lean over to set her down on the mattress, bringing my face close to hers as I lower her onto the bed. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin. Close enough to smell wine and something floral on her breath.
Her eyes flutter open.
Hazel eyes, unfocused and glassy, but staring right into mine. A slow, drunk smile spreads across her lips.
“Hi,” she whispers, and lets out a small giggle that’s pure alcohol and mischief.
Her lips are inches away, curved into a sloppy, drunken grin. A small giggle bubbles out of her, light and reckless, and before I can react, before I can pull back, her hand slides up, fingers tangling in my hair. Her other hand lands on my shoulder, tugging with surprising strength. She pulls me down, and her lips crash into mine.
Soft. Warm. Desperate.
A kiss that tastes like cheap merlot and delusion.
And that fucking face mask—green and flaking—peels in uneven patches across her cheek like she lost a battle with a moss-covered loofah. One chunk is clinging to her jaw like it still has hope. Another’s stuck to her eyebrow like war paint. The top halfof her face is chaos, the bottom is pure sin. It’s like kissing a spa day that went feral.
Christ.
She moans into my mouth, and my restraint breaks for half a second. Just one. I let it happen.
I freeze. Eyes wide open, every muscle in my body turning to stone.
Her hand slides from my hair down to my chest, fingers pressing against my shirt like she’s trying to memorize the feel of me. She pulls me closer, trying to deepen the kiss, but I stay rigid as a fucking statue.
