Page 25 of How to Kill Your Rival

The my wife is said with such deranged obsession that I close my thighs, needing to feel them clench against my wet heat, wishing his mouth was still there.

‘I love that you’re so desperate,’ I whisper, sitting and leaning forward in the seat, using one finger under his chin to tip his face to me. ‘I’ll never be your wife.’

His breath grows ragged as he continues to pump his dick. It’s so fucking hot that I almost beg him to stuff it inside me.

‘I’ll build the walls of our home with the bones of any man who so much as looks at you,’ he grunts. ‘Starting with whoever is tormenting you.’

The way he talks has my stomach flipping. As much as I hold myself out of reach, there’s no denying that his obsession makes me tempted to fold like a fucking deck chair in the wind.

The slutty little moan he gives when I lean close enough that our breath mingles is delightful. This killer on his knees for me, whimpering and obeying.

It makes me weak.

‘Come for me, James.’

And he does. Hot jets of white that hit my feet and gloss my floor. I could care less about the mess when he’s quaking beneath my touch, his gaze never leaving mine.

And for a moment, I imagine this being my life. The two of us here without all the Death Council bullshit and contracts to meet. Without the blood and the death.

It’s a sweet thought, which I immediately eject from my head with a fuck, no.

I love my job.

I love killing the fuck-nuggets who make others’ lives a misery.

And there’s no way I’d ever give the arseholes at the Death Council the satisfaction of running away.

‘Fuck,’ James moans. ‘That was hot.’

Stacking my walls back up, I pull my shorts back on and set my shoulders.

‘Grab a cloth and clean up before you go,’ I say.

When his brows crinkle, I grin. This was a momentary lapse, that’s all. Not the beginning of anything more.

‘It’s that, or you use your tongue.’

9

JAMES

Getting a dentist appointment is like trying to secure a bloody unicorn with a strawberry lace. And my damned tooth has been bothering me for two days. I could drive back up to Scotland and use the private one the Hamiltons and I are registered at, but I’ve got too much to do down in London.

So I’ve spent the morning going between phone calls with half a dozen private dentists, scouring hours and hours of hacked CCTV and trying to find someone in the app’s backend, which runs our murder contracts, to find the leak in the system.

I’m sick of the bloody phone.

And the screens.

And the way my belly rumbles. What I’d give for some of Chef’s buttery biscuits. Instead, I root around in my bare fridge. Half a block of cheese that I’ve not put away properly, gone hard at the edge. A sad-looking jar of limp pickles. Some out-of-date pepperoni.

Damn.

Takeout it is.

I order some Chicken Madras and rice, along with an ungodly amount of poppadoms, and sit back in front of my laptop while I wait. The images flicker from one place to another, from all the cameras I’ve managed to access anywhere near Eliza’s recent ruined contracts.

Whoever is sending people to kill her contracts is thorough. I’ve spotted three different men, their builds distinguishable from one another, but I’m yet to get a clear face picture. I highly doubt three individuals are sabotaging her contracts just for fun, so there must be someone pulling the puppet strings.