How the Hitman Stole Christmas - Sam Mariano Page 0,97
I’m a puppy that had an accident on the carpet.
“Who does this belong to?”
I breathe in his scent—what’s still lingering on the fabric, anyway. It was starting to fade, so I’m glad the big jerk paid me a visit. I’m going to steal the shirt he’s wearing now as soon as he stops being a jealous asshole.
I savor how stupid he’s going to feel when I look up at him calmly and tell him, “You.”
He wasn’t prepared for that answer. Surprise flickers across his handsome features. He pauses in his thunderous stance, then looks at the shirt. “Me?”
I nod, a positively angelic smile on my face. “It’s yours.”
He frowns like he doesn’t quite believe me, then he opens the neck of the shirt and peeks at the tag.
“Oh,” he says flatly. “It is mine.”
I roll my eyes at him, grabbing his sides and yanking him closer so he’s within kissing range. “Come here, you big jerk. Since you’re here, you might as well kiss me.”
He still has a finger inside me, so as he kisses me, he drops the shirt and starts rubbing the walls of my pussy, stoking my pleasure. “I thought you were fucking somebody else.”
“Yeah, I got that,” I murmur, kissing the corner of his mouth.
“I thought I was gonna have to kill some unlucky bastard tonight.” He pushes his gloved hand through my hair, then slides it down to cradle my neck. His grip tightens as he kisses my jaw. “I’d make you watch.” He kisses his way to my mouth, flicking his tongue out and pressing it to the seam of my lips. I open for him and he kisses me hard before murmuring against my mouth. “Make you touch yourself while I’m doing it.”
Between his psychotic words and the way he’s touching and kissing me, he has me breathing heavier, slightly worried about my own sanity for being so turned on by the twisted picture he just painted.
I shake my head to clear it, then lock my arms around his neck to keep him close. “You’re a crazy man.”
“To be fair, you knew that from jump.”
“I did,” I agree, sighing with pleasure as he buries his face in my neck and starts to kiss me there. “But in my defense, even if I had slept with someone else, I never expected to see you again. If you expect me to be chaste as a schoolgirl when you’re not around, that’s the kind of thing you need to tell me.”
He grumbles something unintelligible, but I’m too distracted by him nipping my earlobe to pay it any mind. Shivers of pleasure dance down my spine and I hold onto him tighter.
“I’m also going to expect the same from you,” I inform him, since he hasn’t acknowledged what I said. “If you think I’m going to wait here for you to visit while you’re fucking everything in Chicago, you are very much mistaken.”
Finally, he pulls back to look at me like I’ve said just about the dumbest thing he can imagine. “I don’t want anyone in Chicago. The only pussy I want is this one.”
I gasp as he shoves another gloved finger into me, my body naturally arching off the bed, but trapped against him since he’s on top of me.
“How inconvenient for both of us,” I murmur once I’ve regained my ability to speak in full sentences.
“No kidding,” he murmurs, before crushing his lips against mine.
Words have no place between us for a while as he kisses and fingers me, drawing gasps out of me and then catching them in his mouth.
I hate being hot when I sleep, so even though it’s winter, I’m only wearing a short-sleeved sleep shirt and panties. Jasper drags the glove off his free hand with his teeth, then tosses it off the bed so he can reach down and caress my bare thigh while he fingers me.
“You’re so fucking beautiful. You still smell incredible, too. How do you always smell so good?”
“Magic,” I tease, then I sigh as he rubs his thumb across my clit.
The leather fabric feels different from a naked finger, but as I bite down on my lower lip and writhe against his hand, a thought occurs to me.
“You haven’t killed anyone in these gloves, have you?”
“Of course not,” he says dismissively, increasing the pressure as he rubs his thumb back and forth. “You think I’m gonna touch you with gloves soiled by murder? I’m not an animal.”
“I’m really never sure with you,” I say, gasping and