Page 32 of Hannah and the Hitman

Was I insane? Was I thinking with my vagina? Probably both. Perry would say I was going to hell. Brittany wouldsay I was headed to Pound Town. Mrs. Metcalf wanted me to marry the guy.

I heard his growl. The slight roll of his hips into my center.

He lifted his head. “You’re thinking too much. I can practically hear your brain working.”

I blinked my eyes open. When had they fallen shut? “Sorry, I–”

He shook his head. “It means I’m not doing it thoroughly enough.”

His lips were glossy, cheeks ruddy.

“I can’t get out of my head.”

A little rougher tug on my hair had a gasp slip past my lips. The pain was slight, but it centered my focus on his eyes. On him.

“Better,” he said, somehow finding what he was looking for on my face. Then he kissed me some more. A little rougher, with more pressure of his body against mine and a snug hold on my hair. I was at his mercy here.

My panties were ruined.

Eventually, I had no idea how long he kissed the hell out of me because my brain had definitely shut off, he pulled back, although only enough to murmur in my ear. “I want to cross every single item off your list and add some new ones.”

My eyes were closed, again. I blinked them open. Met his heated ones. So hot, so fierce. He was more aroused than I was, which might actually have been impossible. “Wh–what list?”

Reaching down between us, he shifted his dick in hispants. The action was so male, so virile. And I’d caused that.

My ovaries were fist pumping.

“The list from the plane.” His breath fanned over my skin. “But we’re going to do number six right now.”

I looked left and right. Maybe I should have been more concerned about being seen long before now. We were at the very back of the long rows of shelves, in the W-Z part of the fiction section. Nowhere near the kids’ area or the bathrooms. It was close to closing. No one was probably coming into the library, let alone venturing back this way.

His knuckles grazed my inner thigh, and I had no idea what he was talking about. Wait, when had his hand gotten under my skirt? Oh. OH.

“Nu–number six?” I swallowed when they brushed against my panties. I jolted at the contact, but he was pressed into me from torso to hips that I couldn’t move.

That slight touch had me forgetting what he was talking about. And my name. And why I cared if he was a danger or not.

“So wet,” he whispered.

I moaned.

“From your list on the plane. Number six was to do it somewhere public, where you might get caught. I don’t have a condom and I don’t want a quickie for the first time I fuck you, so here between the shelves where anyone might find us, you’ll come on my fingers.”

Oh my God. OH MY GOD.

Okay. This was the last time I would think it. He officially wasn’t a stalker, if him doing dinner with my family wasn’t enough. No man fingered a woman, then killed her. Inever saw on the news about that happening in real life. Not in the crime documentaries that I loved to watch with Brittany. Not in any book I ever read. Fictionornonfiction.

He nudged my panties to the side and stroked over me, finding me extremely wet. Like, world record arousal. He leaned his head down and softly groaned in my ear.

“Is that all for me?” he whispered.

Should I be embarrassed? Not when he asked like I was giving him a gift.

I nodded and bit my lip, rolling my hips into his touch, wanting more.

“I’d say the library is public and if you aren’t a good girl and keep quiet, youwillget caught. I admit, I don’t want anyone else watching you come. I want that all for myself.”

Then he plunged two fingers deep and I bit his shoulder to stifle a pleasure-laced moan.