Assassin (An SOBs Novel Book 2), page 13
Pagan eased his chin onto the top of Paloma’s head, content to hold her if that was all she wanted. “It was nothing. They would’ve died if I hadn’t gone in after them.”
She nodded, the brush of her cheek against his chest an unexpectedly pleasant balm in the middle of their emotionally charged argument. “It was everything to them. You were very brave, Pagan. I was proud of you. The building could’ve come down and killed you along with them, but you just acted, and that mother and her child are alive today because you did. You even moved them to a safer home in Baghdad. That was kind.”
“But that was a couple years ago. You were there?” The instant he asked, he wanted to call his words back. Of course she’d been there, or she wouldn’t have known what he’d done. But why was she there?
“I was tailing Herr Goudier.”
“Ludwig Goudier, the German banker?” He’d been executed, mob-style, in the Swiss Alps days later. “That was you who ended him?”
Another nod. “He cheated Vito when Vito transferred his accounts from Sicily. Cabb’s finances arrived in Goudier’s bank intact, but Vito’s came up short by a couple million euros. When he confronted Goudier about the missing money, the man had the balls to tell Vito there was a cost to doing business outside Sicily, that he should be a man and get used to it.”
Pagan grunted. “Vito obviously doesn’t subscribe to the BOHICA philosophy of high finance.”
She tilted her head. “What’s that?”
“BOHICA. Bend Over, Here It Comes Again.”
That got a genuine chuckle out of Paloma. “Ah, I like that. Yes, Vito didn’t like the implication that he had to bend over and take anything Goudier offered. So he sent me.”
“But why was Goudier in Tikrit?”
Paloma all but purred. “Because he was also Mohammed bin Hussein’s banker.”
Enlightenment arched Pagan’s brows. “You ended bin Hussein, too.”
Mohammed bin Hussein, a distant cousin of the former ruler of Iraq and now an ISIL commander, had also masterminded the genocidal killing of thousands in northern Iraq during the Sinjar Massacre of 2014.
One of Paloma’s shoulders lifted. “Told you I was good.”
Hot damn. This woman was not only good, but she’d rid the world of two truly despicable men. And she’d done it while working for the mob.
“I don’t get it. It’s okay that I saved that mother and her daughter, but it’s not okay if I keep you safe and out of harm’s way?”
He got a quick chin bump for that when she nodded. “It’s not the same thing, and you know it. As you just heard, I’m fully capable of taking care of myself. Yes, I’m off my game right now. I ran into a little trouble, but that’s why I need this—” Her hands swept up his back in a warm wave that shouldn’t have made him smile, but it did. “—with you.”
Pagan liked this truce with Paloma, enough that he relaxed and molded her body to his, her sumptuous breasts pressed flat—at least as flat as those voluptuous girls could get—to his chest, her hips cradled inside his. Her ear rested over his pounding heart and her belly pressed against his raging hard-on. What do you know? She cares about me. She really cares.
“Even the toughest assassin needs a friend,” she murmured.
Wasn’t that the truth. Since he’d resigned from his team, Pagan had struggled. His family had lost their cornerstone when Scarlett Sinclair died, and that mansion-like cabin Chance had built in Montana was more of a pitstop than a home. Pagan missed going home to his mom’s apartment. He missed chatting with her and his brothers if they happened to be there at the same time. He’d been floating for months since Suede had moved in with Chance. Talk about a third wheel.
It didn’t get any stranger—or tougher—than this. Holding a woman he wanted desperately to make love with. Talking to Paloma. Trying to understand where on earth her ideologies and her passion had come from. Realizing that he did tend to automatically minimize feminine strengths. It was, after all, easier to go with what he knew and understood instead of trying to figure most women out. Because of that reason, he did sort of pigeon-hole females into tidy cubbyholes, and maybe, just maybe, he did that for his peace of mind more than for their safety.
But it was true, and okay, yeah. Paloma was more than capable of taking care of herself—most days. He’d seen her in action. Yes, she was off her game right now, but most guys would be off their games too if they’d been buried alive. Men got hoodwinked, too. Shanghaied. Kidnapped. Probably even buried alive...
Okay then. Maybe it was a brand-new day. Maybe it wasn’t about fighting the whole politically correct current liberal agenda as it was the right time to recognize the fact that women were as strong as he was. Not physically, but in so many other ways. And maybe—just maybe—it was time he admitted he was wrong.
“So, umm, about you going back into Vito’s…”
Her back stiffened, but Pagan cut her off before she got her dander up. “How exactly do you see that going down? What’s my role in this plan of yours? You do have a plan, don’t you?”
Paloma tipped back on her heels to peer up at him.
Pagan licked his lips at the sight. Her sash had come loose. Her robe was undone. Damn, what a sight. Her softness mashed against his hard muscles. Even in the dim hallway light, he could see her big brown eyes and the quirk of a mischievous smile on her full, wet lips. The plump flesh of her voluptuous girls pressed against his t-shirt like pillows he wanted to lay his head on. Between. Whatever. Every last speck of blood drained out of his all-male head.
“I was hoping you’d come with me,” she murmured, her lips glistening. The tip of her delicious tongue made damned sure her lips stayed that way.
He could not think! “Yes, ma’am,” Pagan said meekly. “That I can do.”
Chapter Fifteen
She couldn’t resist. Paloma lifted up on her toes and kissed Pagan. Then she kissed him again as the wildfire she’d held back with her diversionary tactic on women’s rights exploded. Suddenly, lips and hands were everywhere. She climbed Pagan as if he were her own personal tree, his thighs and knees mere footholds to get her where she wanted to go. Once in his arms, she wrapped her legs around his waist, and the next thing she knew, she was on her back in his bed again. Kissing him and loving every delicious, satisfying mouthful.
This man knew how to kiss with long sweeps inside her mouth and over her lips while he held her head between his hands. The sounds of a contented animal rumbled out of him, enticing her to open wider as their tongues made urgent, passionate love.
Easing back, he took a deep breath, which gave her just enough time to get him out of his pants. His shirt flew over his head, while she undid his belt and zipper. He took over then, peeling out of his boots, pants, and boxers. At last and alleluia! He was as naked as she was. Honestly, she had no idea where that robe went, and honestly, who cared which part of the bedroom floor was now graced by fluffy fur? She didn’t.
“I can’t wait, Pagan,” she whined.
“Condom,” he growled as he reached for his pants and dug into his pocket.
“Yes, condom,” she breathed, her fingers straying to his groin. “Need help putting it on?”
That earned her a grunt and a gentle slap on her bare thigh, not like it hurt. “Never needed help before.”
“Good, then…” She arched, every cell in her body on overload at the sight of him kneeling there in the dark, poised for action between her legs. Aimed at her. “Hurry,” she breathed. “I need you. Now.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, his knees spreading her wider still.
Paloma brushed thoughts of forever out of her head. Longevity had no place in the life of an assassin. This fling with Pagan was solely about giving and taking comfort when it came along, which was damned seldom in her line of work. Friendship. This would be a short-lived, but beautiful friendship. Friends with bennies, yes, that was what this was. Nothing more.
Until Pagan waited a moment too long. Until he froze, still at the apex of forever, looking down at her with the most peculiar light glinting deep in his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” She had to know.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice as soft and deep as a jungle cat’s purr. “I don’t want to rush. This is our first time. Our only first time.”
Could this guy have said anything sweeter?
“Pagan? I—”
“Don’t you understand? Life is full of firsts, but none of them will ever be as perfect as this one.” His heated gaze slid over her nakedness like warm caramel, saturating her body and soul in something incredibly sweet and tender. Gooey. She was no longer just the mob’s best hit-girl. She was a woman. The complex, yet fragile feminine secret to Pagan’s rugged masculine key. This wasn’t just tab A sliding into slot B. This act they were in the middle of committing was something much more frightening. She couldn’t put her finger on exactly what this was between them, and he didn’t give her time to think when he...
Yes. This.
He slid into her, filling her with one gentle rush that made her breath catch and her heart pound. This. Yes, oh yes. This was what she’d needed. This rugged, mind-filling sense of connection. This wicked heat that warmed her from the inside out like nothing else. This incredible sense of fulfillment that chased away all thought and doubt, all fear and worry, and forced her to live with the now instead of the what-if.
Paloma closed her eyes and held on as she let Pagan become her world, and what a world he was. It had been so long since she’d been with another man that this time, she flew too high, too quickly. She soared. Arching her body back into the pillow, she bowed to meet his gentle assault, her head throbbing along with her burning heart as—
“Pagan, oh wow, Pagan!” she cried, her poor shredded fingertips digging into his shoulder muscles as her world exploded into light and life and just possibly…
No. Not love. Assassins did not fall in love with other assassins. This wasn’t Hollywood. But if they did…
“I’m falling,” she whimpered as the tectonic plates in her too serious world shifted. Sublime peace wafted over her like a veil, making her believe there could be more to life than living a lie. For once in her convoluted, tangled mess of a life, she felt—hope. How was this possible?
With an intense rumbling growl and another soul-searching push, Pagan rocked into her one last time as he joined her. Completed her. Filled her with fire and sparks and… Damn, I do love this man. Pagan. It’s always been Pagan. Why now? Why here?
A choking sob sneaked up and out of her throat. Paloma clung to him while he gave her all he had. Every last molecule of his masculinity. Every last beat of his mighty heart. The virile heart she’d seen in action over and over and…
Yes, oh yes. Oh yes. This man buried himself to his hilt inside her, and she took everything. Right then, she would’ve agreed to whatever he wanted.
Want to play pretzel? Coming right up.
Sex on the roof? You’re on! Race you to the top!
Bake me a cake with chocolates sprinkles on top? Would you like fries with that?
Okay, so it made no sense, but neither did the tender way he eased one arm under her neck to cradle her, even as his sweat trickled between his cheek and hers. Even as her heart settled into a calmer rhythm that oddly, joyfully, matched his.
Hope and joy. Two wishes she’d never dared think possible, yet here they were, suddenly snuggled between her broken body and this gallant warrior. This man she so did not deserve.
Making love had never been like this before. She’d never felt so completely in sync with another human being, much less a male. And yes, Paloma fully understood the magnetic attraction fueled by adrenaline-filled events—such as being buried alive, shot at, then rescued.
But this sexual attraction was off-the-charts indescribable. Simply, utterly, indescribable.
Paloma couldn’t keep her hands off Pagan. This connection, this sense of safety and security, of someone truly having her back, was what she’d been missing, and she didn’t want this ‘first’ to end. She gathered him into her arms, her hands splayed across his broad back as if she could keep this moment from slipping through her fingers.
More… I want more time and more this and more Pagan.
Loving the salty, slightly spicy flavor of his shaving lotion splashed skin, she ran her tongue up his cheek to his ear. Relishing the prickly rasp of his beard on her lips. The decadent smell of him in her nose. Whiskey and leather. A definite hint of gunpowder. And sex.
More.
Her world stopped turning as a sob crept up her throat, strangling her. Making her think for the first time in years why she did what she did. For so long, she’d disguised her risky, death-dealing career under layers of patriotism, duty, and love of country. But what had propelled her all this time really was—and she knew it—fear. She’d been running all her life. Away from her heartless grandmother. Away from her pitiful past. Away from herself…
Until now, when the world had ground to a stop and forced her to face the truth. She was in love with a man she could never have. She wasn’t good enough for Pagan, and she knew it.
“What’s wrong?” he asked as he bumped his forehead to hers, his breath a warm, rich blessing in her face.
Paloma couldn’t—just could not—let him see. Of all the people in her twisted excuse of a world, Pagan would take one look into her eyes, and he’d know. Damn it. He’d know, because he was one of those few people in the world who truly saw through disguises. That was how he’d connected so easily with Chance’s wife. That was how he was able to save so many children. People in trouble saw him coming and instantly gravitated toward him. Pagan was trust wrapped up in a beefcake package, and she had to get away from him before she gave him too much of herself. Because she wasn’t just falling. No, she’d landed in the land of Heartbreak and Hell.
“I’m just tired,” she lied.
And wasn’t that the truth? She was tired—of her life. It was a total lie. Even though Pagan was also a government assassin, his life had always seemed more honorable, because he was an honorable man to begin with. He’d never had to sell his soul just to look good enough for others.
“Talk to me, Pal,” he murmured as he ran his tongue over her lips. “I’m here for you.”
“No, you’re not,” she told him honestly, because here now did not equate to here tomorrow or here forever. It just didn’t work that way. Not for her. As much as Paloma wanted to ground herself in the arms of someone decent and honorable and good just this once, it wouldn’t last. It couldn’t. They were assassins. The odds were stacked against them. “We’re just friends with bennies, remember?”
“Hey. Friend with bennies,” he teased as he rested his weight on his forearms and cupped her face in his impossibly gentle hands, the pads of his thumbs tender on her cheeks. “You’re crying. What’s up with that?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” He proved it by wiping his fingertip under her eye, and okay. So she was crying? It happened. “Was I too rough? Did I hurt you? It’s been a while for me, and I’m sorry if I lost control, but damn, woman. You’re not what I expected.”
She went for sarcastic. “Ha!” But ended up sounding sad. Probably because the lump in her throat was choking her, making her heart hurt like it might be breaking. Probably because Pagan was everything she’d expected he would be but could never have.
“Leave me alone,” she ordered to get her mind off him and back into reality.
But when he eased away from her like an obedient sex slave she’d just used and abused, she wound her arms around his neck and jerked him back against her breasts with a strangled, “Don’t leave me. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Please don’t go.”
Pagan dipped his forehead to her shoulder and kissed the soft pillowy flesh at the top of her breast. “I’m here,” he told her again, “and I’m not leaving you, Paloma. I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me.”
Ah! This man was breaking her heart!
Chapter Sixteen
As usual, Pagan couldn’t figure Paloma out. One second, she hated him, the next she loved him, at least she kinda, sorta, liked him. But could he read her like a book? No way. The woman was as confusing to him as no woman he’d ever met. So, he held her extra carefully in case he had hurt her, and she wasn’t ready to admit it. Yes, she had her pride, but he was a big guy, and Paloma wasn’t as tough or as heartless as she pretended to be or as he’d once thought she was. It could easily have happened. He could’ve hurt her, especially if she’d been—
Oh, damn. What if she, somehow, had still been a virgin until he’d slam-bammed his way into her? A virgin assassin seemed an exquisitely unreal commodity in this insane world they both worked and lived in, but—what if?
“Are you okay? Do you need to, umm…?” How did a guy ask the woman he’d just had the most amazing sex with if she might be injured or bleeding in her most intimate places because of what he’d done? Pagan had no idea, so he opted to be gentlemanly first and foremost. “Would you like to take a bath with me?”
She held onto him tighter, trembling like a little girl. A lost little girl.
Okay then. If holding her was what she needed, that he could do. A bath could wait.
Pagan eased out of her as slowly as he could so as not to hurt her again. He slid to her side and made quick work disposing of the condom, then came back to bed. Because she shivered when he did, he tucked her sweaty body under his arm, where, damn, it felt like she belonged. Not only belonged but fit as if she were a part of him. A missing part. Like that puzzle piece you’ve been looking for, to complete the picture of—you.
Whoa, boy. No. Just no. Victoria Hex, aka Paloma Juarez, as in Julio’s hot, sexy baby sister, was not his missing half. She couldn’t be. No way. They were just—what’d she say—friends with bennies?
