The Hitman's Angel(17)

Heat sinks in my belly at the idea of him having permanent ink on his skin related to me. “Can I get one, too?”

Now he’s the one who’s horrified. “You think I would be able to stand someone putting a needle to your skin?”

“Lots of people do it.”

“You’re not lots of people, Margaret. You’re my only person.”

The air leaves me. “That’s really sweet.”

“Da, you’ve turned me sweet. Are you happy?”

“Yes. I am.”

His smile is the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen. “Then I am also happy.”

I’ve forgotten all about being sore. Mostly because he’s been standing in front of me naked during our talk and his erection grows by the minute. “Where are we going today? Are you taking me to your place?”

His smile drops. “Nyet. It’s time to find a new place. One we can call ours.” He’s not looking at me. “I need you to stay here while I return home and gather a few things. Then we will leave Baltimore. I have a destination in mind.”

“Where?”

“I want to surprise you.”

Alarm leaps in my bloodstream. “I would rather know where we’re going, Lenin. I haven’t been in control of my life for a really long time. Can’t we talk about it?”

He looks miserable now. “You will wait here for me, angel. Okay? Then we will talk?” He drags on a pair of boxer briefs, wincing when he stows his arousal. Then he paces for a moment, like a restless panther. “If I tell you everything…maybe you won’t be here when I return. Do you understand my worry?”

“It would have to be pretty bad to make me leave.” Vulnerability turns my face hot. “I told you I loved you and I meant it.”

Lenin drops to his knees beside the bed. “Angel.” He bows his head. “It is because you love me that I can’t take the risk. I won’t play fast and loose with a miracle.”

“We don’t have to talk about everything now, but at least take me with you. Show me where you live.”

His expression is agonized but determined. “It is not safe.”

A hint of unease swims in my stomach. “You just helped me escape from being locked up and now you’re already doing the same thing.” My voice falters as the walls of the room start to close in. “Please. Help me feel okay about this.”

“Just be patient—”

“No,” I say tremulously. “You can’t beg me to trust you and give me no trust in return. By keeping me in the dark, that’s what you’re doing.”

He lunges to his feet, driving a fist into the opposite palm with a growl. “I am not a good man, Margaret. I’m unworthy of kissing your feet. I’m trying to cut off the past so it never touches us, but until we’re out of town, there’s a chance my old life will sink its claws in one more time. My apartment is where they would come looking. If you were hurt in a crossfire, I would pray for the devil to drag me to hell because I wouldn’t be able to live another fucking second.”

I can hardly speak around the emotion in my throat. “Are all Russians so dramatic?”

The tension deflates from him when he sees my half-smile. “You will wait here?”

“Yes.”

He crosses the distance between us in one big step and gathers me in his arms, laying kisses on my hairline. “That was good. We had a little fight and—”

“I won. Get used to it.” I push my nose against the center of his chest and breathe deeply of his scent. “Thank you for trusting me.”

Lenin’s mouth closes over mine with a hungry sound and within seconds, his hands are everywhere. Cupping my bottom, stroking my thighs, twisting in my hair. My thighs tremble, wetness pooling between them, and suddenly I’m on my back and Lenin is on top of me, shoving down the waistband of his briefs, removing his cock. “Please. One more time before I go. Please.” Without waiting for my answer, he spears me with his manhood and wastes no time finding a bruising pace, thrusting into my wet entrance again and again without gentleness, my cries of his name echoing off the walls. “You make me crazy, little girl. I can’t stop fucking this pussy.” His head rears back and with his hips pumping furiously, he lets out a guttural shout. “SHE’S MINE!”

“You’re mine, too, Lenin.” I pull him down for a kiss and whimper against his mouth, “Come back safely.”

And he does.

But will I be there when he returns?



It takes me an hour to get restless.

Without Lenin around to distract me, the quiet becomes cloying and memories of the last time I was cooped up at a man’s request—was that really only yesterday?—begin to bombard my mind. I’ve never thought myself claustrophobic, but maybe the disorder has only developed since tasting freedom. I don’t like being stuck in one place without knowing my fate. And to top it all off, I’m worried about Lenin. What kind of danger is he in?

Could he get hurt?

With a small sound, I push to my feet, searching for something—anything—to distract me. I’ve already showered and eaten room service. I’ve doodled on the hotel stationery and watched fifteen minutes of a reality show. Nothing is holding my attention or making me any less anxious.