Release Date: February 27, 2020
Murder only destroys your soul the first time you commit it. Mine shattered at age eight.What started as a required skill has grown into a craving and increasing my kill numbers becomes more fulfilling with each death. I can’t stop. Even if it means denying myself the love of my life—a federal agent trained to bring down people exactly like me. So, where does that leave us? While Mack Murphy has to hunt criminals, I have to take them out. At least until I find the man who murdered my sister. My name is Daria Limonov and I’m an assassin.
She sits next to me, coolly sipping her vodka, watching me with heated eyes. She intrigues me, for sure. But I can’t get a beat on what she’s looking for here at the party. Like me, she’s on alert while projecting a cool and calm facade. We’ve spent the last half hour making conversation, mostly small talk. So I can’t even identify yet what it is about her that interests me.
She’s gorgeous as fuck. With legs I want to see flung over my shoulders while I fuck her into oblivion. About ten minutes ago I started finding reasons to touch her. Big mistake. All I can think about now is ripping that dress off her and running my hands along every inch of her body. Use my heat to melt everything about her that is cold.
She doesn’t giggle. Or flip her hair. There is no batting of the eyelashes, none of the signs that I’m accustomed to women using to show their interest. Which makes her a challenge; it’s more than just that though, and I need to figure out what that more is.
I know that I affect her. I can see that. But she doesn’t give in to it. She’s not law enforcement, but she is in total control of herself and her surroundings. I’m willing to bet she’s had some sort of training. That said, I still got the best of her when I sat down beside her at the bar.
A band takes the stage, a popular one given the reaction of the crowd. The singer is a woman whose voice sounds familiar, but I still couldn’t tell you who it is. The melody is haunting and sultry. I stand and pull Daria up and into my arms for a dance.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
I wrap her more firmly in my embrace, my left hand secure at her lower back as I bring our intertwined fingers to my shoulder, forcing her cheek to my chest. It takes a moment, but soon her body relaxes against mine, as though resigning herself to cooperate. I can’t stop the smile that takes over my face.
“Don’t smile,” she says, making me laugh. “It’s just a dance.”
“It’s a victory.”
“How so?” She angles her head back to look me in the eye.
“One, you’re trying not to like me, but you do. Two, I’m willing to bet you don’t usually dance at parties, but you are. Three, you enjoy the way our bodies fit together just as much as I do.”
“What was that thing you said earlier? Pfft?” Her eyes sparkle as she teases me.
“My sister is gorgeous,” she says. “I am interesting.”
“Agree to disagree.”
“I hate that saying. Americans love to contradict. Same difference. Agree to disagree. Jumbo shrimp.” She laughs at her own joke.
“You’re confusing oxymoron with concession.”
“‘Same difference’ and ‘jumbo shrimp’ are oxymorons. The two words are used together but mean the opposite. Whereas ‘agree to disagree’ is more like a compromise or a concession. We acknowledge the difference in opinion but choose to move on with the conversation anyway.”
I can’t tell if that means she agrees or not.
“Still gorgeous,” I say to the top of her head, her hair tickling my lips. Pretty sure I could stay like this for a while, holding her in my arms, swaying to the music. I haven’t had this kind of reaction to a woman in a long time.
I like it.
We stay this way for two more songs, not talking just feeling. At least for me that’s what it was: feeling content. Which is why, when the next song is faster and she tilts her head up and says thank you, I lean in and kiss her softy on the lips. Letting my own linger a moment on hers before pulling back.
Her mouth stays in a small ‘o’ while she looks up at me with surprise.
Don’t worry, babe, I shocked myself when I did it too.
Which is why I’m even more surprised when she pulls my head back down to hers and captures my lips in a deeper kiss. One that I quickly take control of. My right hand letting go of hers to move up and cup her cheek, holding her in place while my tongue seeks entrance. She snakes her other hand around my neck, my sport jacket falling off her shoulders to the floor.
I propel us off the dance floor and back to the side of the bar. She pulls away before I have a chance to back her up against the wall.
“Wait.” She rushes back to pick up my jacket, slipping her arms into it before returning. Then, as though she’d never left, backs herself against the wall and pulls me to her, resuming the position. I slip my hands down to cup her ass and squeeze.
She moans in my mouth.
My tongue duels with hers. And when I go in for more, she meets me swipe for swipe, bite for bite, and lick for lick in equal measure, making my head spin. My hand slides from her ass to her thigh, I pull her leg up to wrap around my hip. She takes it once step further and wraps both legs around me, her dress riding up around her waist. The tails of my sport jacket covering anything to the sides that might be visible to any onlookers. I grind my pelvis against her, the closest I’ve come to dry humping in years, as we continue to make out. Her heat penetrating through my slacks, making me wish I was sinking into it instead of just rubbing against it.
She kisses her way along my jawline to my ear and moans, “God, don’t stop.”
Her legs tighten in a vice grip around my waist as her teeth sink into my neck and she shudders through her release. The sound that emanates from her chest is animalistic in nature. A man could get addicted to sounds like that. I might be already. Thawing the ice is one thing, melting her entirely until she loses control is mesmerizing.
I hope she doesn’t plan to leave, because I have no intention of letting her go.
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About the Author
Denise Wells has been reading since before she could talk. And to this day, escaping into a book is her go-to activity before anything else.She likes to write about sassy women and semi-flawed alpha-esque men. Denise’s female characters always have strong friendships, potty mouths, and like to drink–a lot. Denise is loyal to a fault, a bit too sarcastic, blindingly optimistic, and pretty freakin’ happy with life overall. As a diehard fan of the band The Replacements, Denise would be a rock star in the band if she couldn’t be a writer. She’s even kissed the lead singer, Paul Westerberg, to prove her devotion. Home is in the Pacific Northwest where she lives with six special needs dogs, one cat (who’s busy plotting the demise of the six dogs), and a husband (BW) who has the patience and tolerance of a saint. And, lest she forget, Denise also lives with too many to count characters inside her head, who will eventually have their stories told.
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