Page 52 of Pretty Little Assassin

“Until I decide to move,” I say.

She pats me down, this time lingering on the bulge in my pants. No pulling away in shock this time. She’s all aggression and power. Jasmine and vanilla and the coppery scent of blood.

“What’s this?” she croons. Her hands are everywhere, and I’m not thinking like an assassin right now. That might be the scariest thing that ever happened to me. And I’ve been tortured. She pulls a push dagger from my waistband.

“I’m just happy to see you,” I say.

She drags the dagger slowly up my body from belly to chin. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. The switchblade at my neck hasn’t moved. She could slice me open. If I let her. I feel gutted. I want more.

“Shouldn’t you be getting some sleep before the big op tomorrow?”

“Aren’t you in no position to be telling me what to do?” This time, she presses her knife against my skin and a single drop of blood wells up. Her pressure is incredibly precise. It only makes me harder.

When she leans forward and licks it, my eyes roll up in my head.

She tosses my knife onto the bed. I note that, even as I lean back and let her questing hand find whatever the hell it wants.

“And what…is…this?”

She spools out the scrap of lace I’ve had with me since the warehouse.

“You shouldn’t leave pretty pieces of lace on chairs where big, bad assassins can take them.”

She tosses the lace onto my knife. That bed is getting more and more interesting, and it was already interesting.

“Big? Bad?” she asks.

I walk her to the bed, her knife still at my throat. I press her down next to the pile of what she stripped off of me. She has not moved her knife away from my neck, and I don’t try to make her.

I lift the large tee to above her waist, making no sudden moves. I glide my hand up her thigh, then curl a finger under the waist of her panties and slide them down.

I pocket them.

“Need some help sleeping, my pretty little assassin?”

I lean down and kiss her stomach. Her legs fall open.

Her knife is still at my neck.

I go lower and pass one slow lick over her center. She shivers. Her knife doesn’t move. Impressive.

“Pick a safeword, мой маленький убийца.”

“Aren’t you the one who needs a safeword?”

She is breathing hard. She’ll be breathing harder in a minute if she chooses to play.

“Aw, I am touched, мой миленькая убийца. I thought you would just kill me.” I speak without lifting my mouth from her, and she shudders.

I lick her again, exploring thoroughly, paying attention to her reactions.

Then I pause.

She growls. The knife hasn’t moved.

“Safeword, little assassin. Because I am going to destroy you.”

We wait. I feel her breaths with my hand on her belly. Finally, she speaks quietly.