Moving Target (Target #3)(5)

Slumping against her, I let her leg fall. “Are you all right?”

“Best birthday sex ever.” She licks my neck. “First birthday sex ever.”

I laugh. She brings that out of me. “Then I am pleased you are happy.”

She exhales. “Will we see each other again?”

“You want to see me again?”

Pulling out of her, I carefully removed the condom and depose of it. By the time, I’ve adjusted my clothes, she’s done the same and is gazing at me, her eyes soft.

“Yes. I don’t want this to be just a one time thing.” Her cheeks grow rosy. “This felt like… more. Although, I have to be honest, I’ve never had a one night stand before, so I could totally be crazy for your loving.”

I join her on the sofa. “Then I shall be honest and say that I have never had a one night stand before either.”

Her mouth drops, then snaps shut for a brief moment. “No way. You… I mean… every guy does that.”

“I don’t have time.”

“So tonight you did?”

I shrug. “It is your birthday, love.”

She laughs, the sounding warming parts of me that have been cold for so long that I’m shocked. “What do we do now?”

“Eat. Drink. Celebrate.”

She eyes me. “You’re not going to make up a wild excuse and leave now?”

I shake my head. “Actually, I wanted to make up a wild excuse to get you to have lunch with me tomorrow.”

Her smile is bright. Beautiful. “No excuse needed.”

“How long are you staying in the city?” I ask, taking a few grapes and feeding one to her.

“Monday afternoon,” she says. “Holiday at work.”

This means I have two and a half days with her. “Would your friend mind if I kidnapped you for the weekend?”

“Oh he’s totally down with kidnapping. But you wouldn’t get very far because he works for the CIA.”

My heart stutters in my chest. Shit. “Do you as well?”

She snorts. “No. I can’t keep a secret to save my life.”

“Then text your friend and tell him that he can collect you on Monday, two hours before your flight or train.”

Another grin. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she says as she texts Mario. “This-you—weren’t even on my bucket list.”



Desire begins to grow, even as she tosses her phone to one side and begins to eat. I can’t stop staring at her, at her dainty movements, at the way she licks her fingers and savors each bite. She’s a naturally sensual woman.

My cock begins to grow hard again. I don’t have another condom, but this booth provides everything we could possibly need.

“Bucket lists are overrated.” Then I cover her mouth with mine.



The next day, after making love to her all night, I take her sightseeing. Her reactions are beyond anything I’ve ever encountered. She’s so damned open.

Everything and everyone is amazing. The food, the people, the City itself. Me.

Then again, she’s only twenty-three, barely out of school, and I tell her as much.

“How are old are you?” she asks with a toss of her dark curls. Her warm grey eyes twinkle in the afternoon light.

“Twenty-seven.” But I feel ancient. The result of a legacy from a family that has no use for the young, except to train them to become professional killers.

“Twenty-seven?” she repeats as we walk hand in hand in Gramercy Park. While the park is only open to residents, I have access due to a payment arrangement for a package delivered to SoHo. “You’re so old. Like how do you keep up with me?”

Grabbing her up in a hug, I swing her around. “Work out a lot.”

“We’ve been working out a lot. I’ve pulled muscles that I didn’t know I had.” She kisses my nose, then my cheek, and then our mouths are one. My hunger for her grows, so fast and furious that I want to throw her down in the grass and fuck her in the broad light of day.

She pulls away, slightly out of breath. “Every time you kiss me, it’s like… the last one you’ll ever give me.”

“We are not guaranteed even a second of every day.”

She regards me for a moment, then giggle/snorts. “When I’m your very old age, will I start spouting off stuff like that?”

“When you’re my very old age, I’m sure you’ll have new wisdom to impart.”

We start walking again, the heady scent of roses in bloom filling the air. “Where did you go to college?”

“Oxford.”

“Fancy-schmancy.” She leans into me while she walks. “Did you actually use your degree?”

“There isn’t one for my career.”

“Basket-weaving,” she asks seriously.

“Transporting and professional killer,” I answer honestly.

Nose scrunching, she nods. “That is a bummer.”

“My clients prefer experience over classwork.”

She stops. “Don’t they all. Do you know how hard it is to find a job that requires experience and not have any? I worked in a donut shop for a year before I was hired by Roman Corp.”

“You paid your dues. That is a good thing.”