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“You okay?” His whiskey eyes analyze my face, concern in them.

Oh my gosh.

He noticed my reaction.

That’s a new experience for me.

“Yes,” I say breathlessly. “Don’t stop.”

“No. If we’re going to do anything, it won’t be on the floor in front of your goddamn front door.”

I blink.

Is this a trick?

Is he going to try and run out?

He sits up and cups my face. “Stop rolling your damn hips before I embarrass myself like a high school virgin.”

“Oh.”

Despite the blood loss and the YouTube stitching I performed, he manages to pull both of us to our feet.

Large hands cup my face and push me against the wall.

I whimper, my arms wrapping around his neck as I lose myself in his kiss.

He breaks it, thumb stroking my cheek. “Where’s your bedroom?”

“Upstairs.”

He lifts me, and I automatically wrap my legs around his waist.

“Are you sure you’re not too woozy to carry me?”

“I’m a helluva lot stronger than that.”

There’s a hitch in his step, and his jaw tightens.

I give him a look.

“Just because I passed out twice doesn’t mean I’ll let it happen a third time.”

That’s more words than he’s said to me since I met him. More words than I thought he could speak.

He carries me up the steps, but I’m not fooled. He’s not as unaffected as he wants me to believe.

“Well, look at you. Big, tough guy.”

“Point me in the direction of your bedroom.”

As I point my finger, I wonder if this is really going to happen. Or if he’ll toss me on the bed, slam the door, and run out of here like his ass is on fire.

But if this is really happening, I can’t let the opportunity pass.

I’m in desperate need of a mind-numbing, toe-curling, cervix-bruising pounding, and this six-foot-four hitman is the one to do it.

I just know it. My spidey sense is tingling.