20. Isabelle #2
"I wasn't going to touch you in the hotel," he rasps. "But you shot my self-control all to hell, Isabelle, and now…" His hand slides up my uninjured side. "Now you know. All the reasons I had for not touching you are gone."
"Unless I tell you to stop."
He looks down at me, his gaze hot and dark. "Are you going to?"
I can't speak. His hips roll down to meet mine, and I feel how hard he is, pressed against me through his jeans. He fists his hand in my shirt, dragging it up the rest of the way and pulling it over my head, leaving me in only the lacy bra underneath.
"We need to get out of here." He groans the words, his hand sliding down my ribs to my hip. "Fuck, we don't have time for this."
"No, we don't," I whisper. "So maybe you should make it fast."
"Every time I'm inside you, pretty girl, I'm fighting everything I've got not to make it fast." His hips rock against mine again. "You could make me come just fucking looking at me."
I swallow hard, my heart beating faster.
Hearing him say things like that—this dangerous, terrifying man who kills—is frightening and intoxicating all at the same time.
I want to run, and I want him to fuck me, and if I ran, deep down, I know I want him to catch me.
I hate him, and I want him gone… and I want him to never leave me alone again.
I've never been so confused about anything in all my life. But right now, I know exactly what my body is screaming for, whether it should be or not.
"You're not supposed to want me," he rasps. "You're supposed to be afraid of me."
"I'm not afraid of you," I whisper. "I just fucking hate you."
His eyes gleam, and he slides his own knife free of his belt. The blade gleams in the light, wickedly sharp, and my eyes widen as he presses it against the lace over my nipple. "You're not afraid of me?"
I swallow hard and shake my head. "No," I whisper. "If you were going to hurt me, you already would have."
I believe that. I don't think he's going to harm me. What I think is that he's a liar, that I can't trust him, that he manipulated and betrayed me… but I'm not afraid of him. In fact…
He pushes the knife point against my nipple, and my hips arch involuntarily. His eyes go a shade darker, his pupils blown wide, and he groans.
"God, you're a fucked up little thing, aren't you?" His cock presses harder against me, and his other hand comes down to flick open the button of my jeans. "First you come with my hand around your throat, and now…"
He drags the knifepoint around the tight peak of my nipple, and I gasp.
His hand grabs the side of my jeans, yanking them and my panties down to my knees, and his hand pushes between my thighs as if he's desperate to touch me.
"God, you're fucking soaked," he groans.
"All wet because the deadly assassin is holding a knife to your skin? "
My lips part, but I can't speak. No words form. My hips shift restlessly against his hand, and when he slides his long middle finger into me, curling it, I let out a long, helpless moan.
"You shouldn't want me, but you do," he breathes. "Your body is fucking begging for me."
I reach up, cupping him between his thighs, the palm of my hand against the hard length of his cock. "So is yours," I whisper.
The muscle in his jaw leaps, and a second finger slides inside of me.
"Come like this for me," he growls, his fingers sliding in and out of me with a slick, wet sound as the heel of his hand rests against my clit and he presses the knifepoint against my nipple.
The lace of my bra tears beneath it, and I feel the cool blade against my skin.
"Come with my knife on your skin and my fingers inside you, pretty girl.
Show me how much you want your assassin. "
I let out a mewling, pleading sound as his fingers move faster, all my shame and reticence gone. I've been lost for him since the first night we met, my body his since we danced, and he knows it. We both do.
There's no point in fighting this right now. Maybe after… maybe then I'll have the strength again. But right now…
God, I need him to fuck me. I need to come.
He knows exactly how to touch me, how to make my body sing for him.
His fingers, his hand, the press of the knife that almost draws blood but doesn't…
adrenaline and pleasure crash through me until I'm breathless, moaning, and then the orgasm crashes over me, making me buck up into his hand and feel the sharp bite of pain as the knife cuts into my breast ever so slightly.
The pain intensifies the pleasure a thousandfold. My voice rises to a keening pitch, crying out as he makes me come hard on his hand, his knife, his eyes gleaming and hungry as he watches me fall apart for him.
And then, as I'm still trembling beneath him, my eyes burning for reasons I don't want to think about right now—or maybe ever—he pulls his hand out of me and undoes the front of his jeans with fast, jerky movements, freeing his cock.
God, he's huge. The thought flashes through my head as he angles himself against me, pushing the thick tip into me without waiting.
I'm still clenching and fluttering from my orgasm, and he groans, gasping as he slides himself into me in one long, hard stroke.
"Fuck, there's nothing like the first stroke," he groans.
"And God, it's never felt better than with you. "
He drops the knife, his hand clutching my breast, squeezing as the other hand knots in my hair, and he starts to thrust. "Fuck, you're perfect.
You're so perfect I'm going to fucking die to have you, do you fucking understand that, Isabelle?
I've fucking killed myself just to…" He gasps as he thrusts again, sinking into me hard with stroke after stroke, and I stare up at him, eyes wide.
I don't know if he even realizes what he's just said, how he's laid himself open for me, or if he knows and he doesn't care. My heart is pounding in my chest, my body alive and trembling under him, half-naked while he's still clothed, me vulnerable to him while he keeps himself wrapped up.
Except for that one part, bare and hot, thrusting into me relentlessly. His eyes look frantic as he fucks me, his fingers tangled in my hair. "Tell me you want me," he groans. "Tell me how fucking bad you want the killer who's fucking you, pretty girl."
"So fucking bad," I whisper, reaching up to dig my nails into his shoulders, clinging on as he fucks me relentlessly. He slams into me, harder and harder, and I feel him tense and shudder, on the verge of coming.
"Tell me you're mine," he whispers harshly, and my chest twists, anger and hurt and betrayal mixing with the pleasure as I feel myself start to shudder and clench around him again, squeezing his dick inside of me as he holds himself there on the edge of his own pleasure.
I arch up, just as he jerks himself out of me, unable to bear it any longer, and whisper in his ear.
"It's too late, Julian."
He groans, still clutching me as he spurts onto the bed between my thighs, some of the heat of his cum splashing onto my skin as his cock jerks and twitches. "Isabelle—"
The way he moans my name, it's like he's never moaned anyone else's. Like he never will again. Like he's mine, completely.
And maybe all that is true. He was supposed to take my life, but I'm going to take his. Not with my own hands… but because of me, he's going to die.
That might be some kind of karma. Some sort of justice. But truthfully, I don't know how I feel about any of it any longer.
All I know is that I can't give him any more of myself. And as the pleasure recedes, as he pulls back from me, gasping, I remember that I shouldn't even have done this.
When he turns away, I grab at my clothes, quickly covering myself. He tucks his softening dick away, and I wonder if he feels ashamed, if he regrets any of it.
I don't know if I regret it, but I do know we shouldn't keep doing this. If we even live long enough for the question to come up again.
I see his jaw work as he does up his jeans. "You let me fuck you again." His voice is low. "You have a terrible sense of self-preservation, Isabelle."
I swallow hard. "It's hot," I admit quietly. "That you're an assassin. That you're dangerous. That you could kill me, but you won't."
He looks over at me sharply as I stand up, turning to face me. "That's fucked up."
"I know." I reach up and trace my fingers over his jaw. "But it's true. I hate that you lied to me. I hate that you were hired to kill me. But I can't stop wanting you."
"Isabelle—" He lets out a sharp breath. "We'll talk about this later. We need to get out of here before Stanislav finds us."
I stare at him. "Who?"
"The assassin who…" He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. But we need to go. But first…"
He pauses. "Isabelle… I've been trying to track down the source of this contract since we left Greece. I couldn't ask you too many questions without giving away who I was and what I was doing. But now…" His jaw tenses. "Do you have any idea who would want you dead?"
The question makes me pull back slightly. "What?"
"You heard me. Do you have enemies that you know of? Anyone who would pay money to have you killed? Does any of this make sense to you?"
I think about it. Try to imagine who would hate me enough to order my death. "I don't know," I say honestly. "I don't have enemies. Not that I know of anyway."
"Think." His hands move to my shoulders. "Anyone who's threatened you? Anyone who's shown unusual interest in you? Anyone who would benefit from your death?"
I shake my head slowly. "No. I mean, there are people who don't like me. People who think I'm spoiled or shallow or whatever. But no one who would want me murdered."
"What about your family?"
"My father?" I almost laugh. "No. He would never. He loves me."
"Anyone else?"
"I mean…" I pause. "My stepmother doesn't like me. She never has. But not enough to… to kill me. Or… have me killed, or whatever."
Julian just looks at me, his dark gaze steady. "Are you sure?"