Assassin Bride of the Mafia Heir novel · Chapter 2 of 9
Chapter 2: The First Time
James pins Celia against the bedroom door and they kiss for the first time, then touch each other through their clothes and under them with hands only, both still dressed, until she whispers for him not to stop.
The knife was still on the floor where she had dropped it. She could feel the cold of it against her ankle, but she couldn't look down.
Because James Ray had her wrists pinned to the bedroom door, and his mouth was on hers.
She had not planned for this. She had planned for the kill. For the clean, practiced violence of a job finished. For twelve years of training to snap into place and end a man before he saw her face.
But he had known her name. He had said it in the dark of the safe house, soft and certain, and the knife had fallen from her hand like it belonged to him.
He kissed like he had been waiting. Not hungry. Not frantic. Deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world and intended to use every second of it on her mouth.
Her body didn't ask permission. Her spine arched away from the door, pressing her chest against his, and her fingers curled into the starched white of his collar.
She was supposed to kill him. That was the job. That was the only reason she was in this room.
Instead, she made a sound against his lips. A small, ruined thing that she would deny to her grave.
He pulled back just far enough to look at her. His hazel eyes were dark, his breath warm against her wet mouth.
'You came here to kill me,' he said.
'Yes.'
'And now you're kissing me instead.'
'Shut up.'
His smile was slow, and it did something terrible to her stomach. 'Make me.'
She surged forward and caught his mouth again, harder this time, her teeth scraping his lower lip. He made a low sound in his chest and pressed her back against the door, his hips pinning hers, and she felt him.
All of him. Hard against her belly through the fine wool of his trousers.
A hot wave went through her, a clench low and deep, and her thighs pressed together on their own.
He was hard. Because of her.
His hands left her wrists and found her waist, his fingers splaying wide over the fitted black of her tactical shirt. He dragged the fabric up, slow, and his palms met bare skin.
She gasped into his mouth. His hands were warm, rough at the edges, and they moved up her ribs like he was mapping her.
'You're shaking,' he murmured against her throat.
'I'm not.'
'You are.' His thumb traced the underside of her breast through her bra, and her whole body jerked. 'Right here.'
She grabbed his collar and pulled, and the top two buttons of his shirt gave way with a soft pop. The sound was obscene in the quiet room.
His skin was hot under her fingers. She flattened her palm against his chest and felt his heart pounding, fast and hard, and some vicious part of her was satisfied.
He wasn't as calm as he looked.
'You want this,' he said. It wasn't a question.
'You're the one with your hands up my shirt.'
'That's not an answer.'
She looked up at him. His jaw was tight, his lips red from her mouth, and there was a flush high on his cheekbones that made him look younger. Less like a man who had been born into violence.
'No,' she said. 'It's not.'
His eyes went dark. He slid his hands around to her back, found the clasp of her bra, and worked it open with a single practiced twist.
Her breath caught. She should stop this. She should push him away, retrieve the knife, finish the job.
She didn't.
He pushed the cups aside and cupped her breast in his palm, his thumb dragging over her nipple, and her head fell back against the door.
'Oh,' she breathed.
It was the only word she had left.
He bent his head and kissed her throat, her collarbone, the swell of her breast above his hand. His mouth was hot and open, and she felt the graze of his teeth.
'James.'
His name came out of her like a confession. Like a thing she had been holding in her chest for longer than she wanted to admit.
He lifted his head. 'Say it again.'
'No.'
'Celia.' His hand slid down her ribs, over her stomach, and stopped at the waistband of her jeans. His fingers curled just under the denim, not moving. 'Say it again.'
Her hips pushed forward on their own. A small, involuntary roll that pressed her against his hand, and she heard herself make a sound she had never made before.
'James.'
'Good girl.'
The words went through her like a blade. Hot and sharp and exactly where she wanted them.
She reached for him. Her hand found the hard line of him through his trousers, and she pressed her palm flat, feeling the heat of him even through the wool.
His breath caught. Then a grunt, low, torn out of him.
She couldn't move her hand. She didn't want to.
He was thick under her palm, and the knowledge of it made her mouth go dry. She had come here to kill this man. She had a knife on the floor three feet away.
Instead, she was stroking him through his trousers, and he was letting her.
His forehead dropped to hers. 'You're going to be the death of me.'
'That was the plan.'
He laughed, a rough sound that she felt in her own chest, and then he kissed her again. Deeper this time, his tongue sliding against hers, and his hand worked the button of her jeans open.
The zipper came down. His fingers slipped under the edge of her underwear, and she stopped breathing.
'Tell me to stop,' he said against her mouth. 'Tell me, and I will.'
She didn't.
His fingers found her, and her whole body went rigid against the door. A strangled sound tore out of her throat, and her nails dug into his shoulders through his shirt.
She was wet. She was so wet it should have shamed her, but she couldn't find the room for shame. Not with his fingers moving like that, slow and knowing, not with his mouth at her ear.
'That's it,' he murmured. 'Let me hear you.'
She bit her lip hard enough to taste copper. She would not give him that. She would not fall apart for a man she had been sent to kill.
But her hips were moving now, rolling against his hand, and her breath was coming in short, broken gasps that she couldn't control.
He pulled his hand away, and she made a sound of pure protest.
His eyes met hers. Dark, intent, and utterly in control. 'I want to hear you.'
'Go to hell.'
'Not without you.'
He lifted her. One arm under her thighs, the other braced against the door, and he carried her across the room like she weighed nothing at all. The bed met her back, and he followed her down, his body covering hers, his weight a thing she wanted more of.
The knife was still on the floor by the door. She could see it from here, a gleam of steel in the low light.
She didn't care.
He pushed her shirt up higher, baring her stomach, her ribs, and she arched into his mouth as it moved down her body. His tongue traced the line of her hip, and her hand fisted in his dark hair.
His hand slid up her ribs, under her shirt, and she arched into him, her fingers curling into his collar, and she whispered, 'Don't stop.'
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