Chapter 17 Madison
Madison
I knew it would be like this when we finally met.
He groans, and it melts into a low chuckle that vibrates through my whole body, starting in my core since I’m currently wide open and sitting on him. My insides clench at the sensation, and the heat between my legs that started when we kissed feels even hotter than before.
“Oh, brava, Madison. I’d applaud you, but my hands are a bit tied at the moment.”
Fuck, I wish I didn’t want to laugh at that.
“How did you figure it out?” he asks. If possible, he sounds even more turned on than he did a minute ago.
I knew it. I knew it. It’s him. He’s SpyderMan. After all this time. I can’t believe we’re finally face to face.
My pulse rockets, making my cheeks flush and my whole body tingle with excitement. A sudden swooping drop in my stomach coupled with a hard double-beat of my heart makes my hand shake a little—I hide it by pretending to adjust my grip on the gun.
Okay, be cool, Mads. I cooked this plan up when there was still a decent chance Peter was just some random stalker and I needed to assess the stranger danger. Now that I know he’s the guy I’ve been flirting with online for two years… I’m not really sure where to go from here.
Part of me wants to stow the gun because I know my SpyderMan would never hurt me.
But he’s clearly not here to buy me tacos and win me stuffed animals—if he had been, he would have just told me who he was.
He’s been playing me since the moment we met in that café.
Maybe even before. And if I know him, SpyderMan has some sort of agenda.
I need to take several chill pills and figure out what it is.
He gives his cuffs a tug, and the metallic rattle echoes deep in my core. An image flashes—of our positions being reversed. Of being under him. Restrained. At his mercy. Open, waiting, willing, desperate…
Snap the fuck out of it, Madison.
“I’ll ask the questions,” I fire back, pressing the tip of my SIG Sauer 9 mm pistol against his chest. He tenses under me. “Is your name really Peter, or should I just keep calling you SpyderMan?”
“I thought we settled on ‘Sir.’”
The word sends a completely uncontrollable shiver down my spine. He practically purred it. It sounds so right on his lips, like he’s totally used to the title—then I remember the conversation we had a couple weeks back where he said that.
“Funny,” I drawl.
“Who’s joking?”
With a scowl, I adjust my finger on the trigger to remind him that I’m holding it—and to remind myself that I’m supposed to be projecting an image of control over the situation.
He looks way too fucking at ease for someone on the wrong end of the barrel of a gun.
It’s making me uneasy. “Are you seriously not going to tell me your name?”
“Maybe once you’ve earned it,” he says lightly, but his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Until then, you can call me anything you like, love.”
I frown. Once I’ve earned it? A wave of hot, indignant anger washes over me, even as the erotic image shifts from being cuffed under him to being on my knees in front of him.
Of him threading those long fingers into my hair and tugging at the base of my scalp so my head falls back and my mouth falls open…
“All right then, pendejo—”
He chuckles, undercutting the impact of my insult. “Asshole is a bit harsh, considering our history, don’t you think?”
I cock my head. “Well, SpyderMan is kind of a mouthful, and you’ve done nothing to earn the title of Sir, as far as I’m concerned.”
“I think you’ll find me to be a bit more than a mouthful,” he promises, eyes dropping to my lips.
I lick them just to put on a show. “You haven’t earned that, either,” I purr.
“Fuck,” he curses softly, grinning to himself and shaking his head. He pulls against his restraints like he wants to reach for me, triceps bulging against his sleeves and making the ink on his arms dance. “You really are everything I was hoping you’d be, Madison. More than.”
A swell of confidence at the praise warms me as the edge of obsession and hunger in his voice sends a shivery thrill up my spine.
I lean forward and watch his eyes follow the way my breasts swell over the top of the bra, shining with raw desire.
It’s not a push-up, more a bralette—scraps of lace and satin held together with elastic, not underwire—but it covers very little.
And it’s safe to say he appreciates that.
“I’d love to say the same, but you won’t tell me who you really are.” I sit back and press the gun harder against his sternum.
The sound of denim catching against lace is a roughly erotic scratch as he shifts underneath me, rocking his hips in a small circle.
I gasp as he positions his thick, pulsing length perfectly between my lips and rocks his hips so it slides through my slit.
My eyes almost flutter shut as the sensation sends a wave of heat prickling under my skin.
Then I rear back and gape down at the wet spot on the front of his jeans.
I’m not sure who caused it. Probably a group effort.
“Are you… getting harder?”
His grin shifts into one of true amusement. “What can I say? Nearly everything you do turns me on, but this violent side is hot as fuck."
“You’re kind of a freak, huh?”
“You like it because so are you.”
Fuck me. I do and I am.
Like he knows what I’m thinking, he does it again, and I have to swallow the groan. “I had no idea how you’d react to the truth, but being handcuffed to your bed and threatened with a gun is so much better than anything I imagined,” he says.
I choose to ignore how that makes the ache deep inside of me worse, because if I let myself focus on how badly I want to unzip his pants and peel back the waistband of his boxer briefs… well, I won’t get my questions answered if my mouth is too full to ask them.
“You’re remarkably chill for a guy being held at gunpoint,” I observe, lifting a brow.
“You won’t kill me,” he returns evenly.
“You’re right. I won’t. But shooting someone in the dick doesn’t usually kill them.”
His laugh is self-deprecating. “I think that particular part of my anatomy is safe—perhaps the only part of me that is, considering how badly you seem to want it.”
I roll my eyes, but he’s not fucking wrong. Time to get back on track. “We’ll see about that—kind of depends on how satisfying your answers are. Now, how long have you known who I was?”
“Not long,” he replies, his expression falling into something more serious, like he wants me to know he’s not joking. “I only learned your true identity after our first date. And… it was a complete surprise, if I’m honest.”
That would mean that we’ve been in the same city all this time and neither of us realized. Is that even possible? I desperately want to take him at his word because… well, I want to. But can he be trusted? If you had asked me last week, I wouldn’t have hesitated before saying yes. Now, though?
He found me first, but he didn’t say anything until now—until I confronted him with it and forced his hand. That’s suspicious as fuck.
“How did you find me?” I ask, scowling. “Is there a vulnerability I need to patch in my security protocol?”
The corners of his mouth lift again. “No,” he says, sounding delighted by the topic shift. “Your protocol is quite impressive—even I couldn’t get around it.”
Pride floods my face with warmth, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how pleased that makes me. His ego seems big enough. “Then how? You expect me to believe you just happened to walk into the same coffee shop as me after all this time?”
“No…” The shake of his head is somewhat sadder this time, and he heaves a huge breath that rocks both of us. “Your name appeared on a list, Madison. A hit list.”
The silence that follows that declaration is thick enough to cut, and I go completely still. My mind races as I analyze this information. It could be true—my information brokering could have pissed off the wrong person. My identity is well buried, but I can’t rule out that possibility.
But even if it’s true, it’s still just a piece. It’s not the whole story.
“Okay, but that doesn’t really explain everything, like how you know about this hit list, or why you’re here...” I watch him work a swallow, and I feel a kernel of sudden realization pop in my chest. “Unless… Is it because it’s your hit list?”
His eyes blaze, and he stares up at me with such raw admiration I can feel it in my soul. “God, the way your mind works… You already know the answer, Madison. Keep going. Put it all together for me.”
Excitement swells in my veins at the challenge. “So you’re an assassin,” I murmur, feeling strange saying the word out loud. He nods, urging me to keep going. “And you were supposed to kill me. Then you realized who I was and decided to… date me instead? Is that about the gist of it?”
He grins. “Got it in one.” His eyes drift down my body slowly enough to draw a path of goosebumps. He licks his lips, shifting his hips under me again.
I make a humming sound of amusement. “Well, it’s a nice story, I guess.”
“What, you don’t believe me?” he asks, unsurprised.
“You’ll have to forgive my skepticism,” I drawl. “But even you have to admit that it’s pretty inconceivable. And it would be kind of fucking dumb to take you at your word, considering how many of your words have been big ole lies.”
“If you’re open to the truth, I can give you proof.”
I tilt my head, examining him. I’m no expert or anything, but I like to think I can tell when someone is obviously lying. I know some of the common tells, which he’s not exhibiting. He’s meeting my eye, speaking calmly, and his story is consistent—if improbable.
I’d like to get to the bottom of this, and I suppose that means believing his answers at some point… as long as the proof is compelling. And I’m still in control—I’ve still got the upper hand. He’s cuffed, and I’m the one with the gun. Sure, it’s not loaded, but he doesn’t know that.
“All right,” I decide. “I’ll look at your proof.”