Hit Man: A Sexy Action-Packed Alpha Adventure Romance

by Michele Mannon

  I stare into the glass, barely recognizing myself. My friend insisted I wear her tight red dress, which is blindingly bold. In comparison to my wardrobe, which is grounded in black—more so because I hate wasting my creative energy on matching tops to bottoms than fitting into the stereotypical architect’s penchant for wearing this noncolor—the red dress projects confidence. And sex appeal, which I normally would feel awkward being so blatant about. There’s something in the water tonight that’s sidelined all sense of caution. And although the short, midthigh length and deep V-neck put a little extra bounce in tonight’s strut, it’s what I’ve got going on beneath the dress that is bringing out this sexual side of me I never really explored.

  Nothing underneath. I’ve gone commando.

  It’s all because of the handsome, bold stranger in the living room, too.

  Hot guy. Attention-grabbing dress. The perfect plan, right?

  If only he’d been at the party to see it.

  My eyes skim over the faces of the men assembled in the living room below, then I shake my head. No hot-bodied boxer.

  No answer to the question that begs to be answered: “Exactly how wildly uninhibited can you be?”

  Phat P comes back on from their break. I close my eyes, letting the liquor and music guide me as I sway to their rap about the po-lice.

  The po-lice, and poverty.

  Rapping about poverty in a room that must have cost millions to construct.

  “Are you okay?” Zoey asks.

  “Yes,” I reassure her, shaking off my continued doubts about Juan Carlos. Renaldo comes over to us and I shout, “When is the next party?”

  He shrugs his shoulders.

  “Okay. What time is this one over?”

  He glances at his watch. “Soon. Two AM. We’ve a business meeting in the morning.”

  I sigh. No stranger. No tempering this unshakable curiosity I have about him.

  “There’s time for one more round,” Zoey hollers.

  “I’ll go get them,” Renaldo says, heading off across the dance floor. He’s got tight buns perfectly outlined in that suit. But not quite up to Channing Tatum standards. Not even close to—

  “You checking out my man?” Zoey interrupts, with a laugh. “Latino men are the best lovers. Look around you, they positively ooze sexuality.”

  “Half of them aren’t Latino,” I remind her. Juan Carlos does have a lot of international friends staying at Casa Bella. Wealthy business associates, Zoey had told me when I asked her about it earlier.

  “Trust me. You should try one on for size.” She hits me on the hip, and I grin at the enthusiasm in her voice. Yep, Renaldo is keeping someone happy.

  “I just might,” I tell her. “Someone the opposite of me.”

  “Opposites attract.”

  I nod in agreement, like I know this to be true. “I’d like to be with a man who goes with the flow. Who acts on his passions rather than methodically plotting everything out. My ex, Howie, was threatened by my going abroad. My independence threw him off. Corporate work was the limit of his dreams for himself and me,” I tell her.

  “Howie. You should have known what you were in for when you decided to date a guy with such a ridiculous nickname. I bet he’s pissing himself knowing you’re down here with all these gorgeous Latin American men.”

  “You’re right,” I agree with her, feeling dizzy and a bit wild. And, sadly enough, I don’t miss Howie. Even more sad is the realization that has me wishing I’d never wasted my time on someone who I was never truly feeling. We were like two bobbleheads riding along in the same car headed toward the same career, same one-track vision of life. Until I got out.

  “Now we’re talking, sister.”

  Talking. Maybe now would be the perfect time to share that I’m one step ahead of her, and confide in her the real reason I put on this dress?

  “See anyone you like?” she prompts.

  With a sigh, I sweep my gaze across the room. Searching for Reason Number One. Until . . . I blink, and . . . find him.

  Staring. At. Me.

  He’s across the dance floor, leaning against the bar. Dressed casually in black jeans and a black T-shirt. Blatantly watching me.

  I hastily glance away. I’m light-headed, giddy. Totally overreacting to the situation. My brain, trained to be active, to be constantly thinking, overthinking things.

  He’s here.

  He’s here for me.

  You’ve probably swallowed a tiny piece of that tequila worm. There’s no rational reason why he’d be here for me. One glance across the open space? That’s some mighty voyeuristic magic I had going on yesterday.

  Phat P decides to switch things up and sing us a slow soul song. Couples quickly partner up.

  I don’t dare glance back at my stranger. Despite my desperate desire to do so. Instead, I do the next best thing. I begin to dance, losing myself in the tequila and beat. Slowly. Swaying my hips and pretending his hands are on my back, guiding me, his big hands touching my warm skin. Giving in to the croon of Phat P’s music, the sexy words of his song about heartbreak and desire.

  “Dios mío. Who started the fire while I was gone?” Renaldo exclaims. I hear Zoey giggle and I ignore them both. My focus on my body, the music . . . him.

  No more obsessing about funding, planning my sales pitch, worrying about money and my job and my last-ditch plan. Raising my arms up over my head, I sway and gyrate. Feeling sexy in this red dress. Feeling sexy from the thought of him watching my movements, watching how I’m dancing for him.

  Is he watching me?

  I open my eyes.

  I’ve caught his attention, his gaze is fixed on me. Like a thunderbolt of blazing fire reaching across the space. Arousing me, I feel the heat connection between my thighs and at my core. I. Want. Him. This bold, naughty stranger.

  It makes me bold like I’ve never dared to be before. Brazen. I move without constraint, feeling the music, rolling my hips, and swinging my body. I see his jaw tighten and smile. The red dress spreading sexy karma between the distance that separates us.

  You. I’m dancing for you.

  Once more, I lift my arms overhead. A dance of flirtation. A dance of seduction.

  He slowly straightens.

  My heart swings into double tempo.

  I spin, playing coy. Shaking my ass, getting my sexy on. Breathless with anticipation.

  I turn back, eyes wide open yet full of invitation.

  And stop dancing.

  He’s . . . gone.

  I scan the room, searching, searching. Until all I find is disappointment. I read it all wrong.

  He hadn’t been here for me, after all.

  Someone screams. It’s the kind of scream that begins with a shout, a pause, and a bloodcurdling screech before it fades off then abruptly ends.

  A scream that echoes over the floorboards from across the great room long after it’s been muted.

  I’m cold, chilled. Despite the warm bodies and hot, summer night. Despite my brazen come-and-get-me dance. I place my hand on the glass wall. Thankful for its security. Because I know what’s happened.

  An accident.

  Someone’s fallen off the edge of the dance floor.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Aubrey

  Renaldo assured us everything is okay. That the man landed in the safety net Juan Carlos insists is in place during any major events. “That fall must have taken years off of his life.” Zoey laughed, always taking everything at face value.

  A safety net? If that isn’t the most ridiculous solution to an accident waiting to happen. I keep hearing the man’s scream echoing in my head. Yet if he was hurt or worse, common sense says sirens would fill the night air, right?

  The three of us stumble across a wide expanse of lawn that runs parallel to the winding pebbled path leading to the guest bungalows. When we arrive at ours, I push open the door, before turning to say, “Tipsy or not, I’d have found my way but I appreciate the escort. Meet up with you at bre
akfast?”

  Zoey looks at Renaldo, as if he’s going to pass on the chance at taking her to bed. “Since cell service is horrible, I’ll come by, and if you’re not around, leave you a note if anything changes,” she tells me. Renaldo swoops her into his arms and, after a long kiss, carries her away.

  Latino lovers certainly know how to sweep a girl off her feet.

  I hesitate in the door’s threshold, appraising the space around me as I tend to do. Though it’s more a mental than visual appraisal, given the night is dark, inside is pitch-black, and my vision is a tad impaired.

  Our bungalow has a quaint rustic vibe, with its thatched roof, small yet impeccably groomed patio entryway, and clean, faux-wood designed tile flooring. Two comfortable side-by-side queen-size beds dominate the living space. A single painting adorns the wall across from them. A scene of cows in a pasture—an odd, outdated picture with a 1970’s vibe. It’s far too large for the space. And why is it facing the bed? Who would want to be staring at cows all night when outside from the patio, you can view the lights of Mexico City off in the far distance? A neat, functional bathroom, with a touch of luxury in the addition of an eight-inch chrome rain shower head, completes the space.

  No kitchen. Guests are invited to the main house whenever the mood strikes them.

  And the perfect reason to venture back and make opportunities happen.

  Tomorrow.

  I bump the door closed with my hip, shake off my sandals, then shimmy out of the tight red dress. The material falls in a heap at my feet but I don’t dare bend to snatch it up, those tequila shots seriously upending my equilibrium. Stepping out of the material, I stretch my arms forward for balance and zombie-walk in the darkness toward my bed, which is farthest from the door.

  Alone.

  Light of head, light in spirit.

  Feeling reckless.

  What I should be doing instead of the zombie walk is the walk of shame. Where did the handsome hunk with Superman’s buns disappear to? Maybe he’s in a bungalow close by? Do I want him to be in the bungalow close by . . . within proximity to me and my lustful thoughts?

  Do I dare seek him out?

  My heart races at the naughty idea. Tomorrow. When your head is clearer you can restrategize the perfect introduction.

  I inhale deeply and move over to the side of my bed. A wonderfully tantalizing hint of citrus fills the air. The maids must have sprayed some kind of orange-infused air freshener layered with a hint of spice. Bringing the outdoors inside. And I plan to do the same because since I can’t gaze at the stars, I’ve decided to dream about them.

  Stars and oranges and sexy bad boys.

  The bedside light abruptly turns on.

  I squeal and jump, my mouth falling open with disbelief. Temptation is here . . . tonight . . . in my bed.

  “Oh,” I hear myself gasp.

  Seconds pass as his eyes rake over me, down to my toes and back up to my face.

  All I can do is stare at him, falling into stunned silence.

  “You’ve got a beautiful body, chavita.”

  Naked. I’m naked. I immediately fold an arm across my chest and hang a hand in front of my crotch. “What are you doing in here?” I murmur. Up close, he’s even more gorgeous. Breathtakingly so, with lips plump for kissing and eyes the color of caramel.

  Except they’re the opposite of sweet.

  Naughty, come-play-with-me eyes.

  Do I want to play? Be daring, be bold? I did a few seconds ago. . . .

  “Did you have too much to drink? Wander into the wrong bungalow?” I mean, pinch me, please. Things like this don’t happen to me. My life is rather predictable. Boring, perhaps.

  “I’m waiting for you.”

  Lord have mercy but do I need another shot. Liquid courage. Drunken bravado. Whatever. The sheet settles around his waist and I’m treated to a mouthwatering display of muscled chest. My gaze drops lower to the taut plains and valleys of his abs. And lower still . . . to the prominent bulge highlighted against the thin cotton material.

  He’s naked.

  My lips part in surprise.

  “That’s for you, chava.”

  Oh my God. He knows exactly the effect he has on me, doesn’t he?

  “I don’t remember inviting you in.”

  “Don’t you? I could have pushed your lovely body up against that window, hiked up your skimpy red dress, and taken you right there, in front of all those dancers. And guess what, you’d have begged me to do it.”

  I blink.

  There’s confidence and there’s arrogance. Even if what he’s saying is true . . .

  “You playing hard to get?” he murmurs. Yet his tone is firm, no-nonsense.

  “Hard to get . . . no . . .”

  “Then come here.”

  I don’t move. Hell, I can’t. My head’s spinning as fast as my heart’s pounding. His bold proposition is tempting . . . so tempting . . .

  No one will know. But you. And him.

  He sighs, sitting up in bed and folding the sheet back. With slow, smoothly deliberate movements, he slides out of bed to stand before me.

  But he looks past me to the painting on the wall. “I’m not fucking you with un campo lleno de vacas watching us.” Moving around me, he scoops up my red dress and tosses it at the picture. It snags on the wooden frame, completely covering the pastoral scene.

  “Much better,” he informs me, the tone of his voice less of a rumble and more at a normal pitch.

  “You’re awfully presumptuous.”

  “Tell me to leave and I will.”

  I bite my lip. Isn’t it so much easier with him going all alpha on me?

  “Sí?”

  I pause in indecision. A feeling as foreign to me as discovering a guy so hot, so far removed from my world, my realm of possibility, is in my bed, where I want him to stay.

  He gives me a lopsided grin.

  A killer grin, with a little dimple that causes butterflies to flutter about inside my stomach.

  A seasoned seducer, who probably charms the panties off every woman he meets. I mean, just look at him. Of course he does.

  Yet it’s the hunger in his eyes as he rakes his gaze over me that does me in. “You want me?” he asks as our eyes collide.

  What is life truly without a few regrets? The rational part of me understands this, that if I fuck this gorgeous man, that’s what he’ll be. A regret. Yet the wild, recently liberated side of me whispers, Do it. Make him the best regret ever.

  “Yes,” I say, a little breathlessly. Okay, a whole lotta breathlessly.

  He really does smile this time, the kind that causes tiny creases to form around his eyes. “Good. Now touch me.”

  I shift forward, nervous and excited and as reckless as can be. Until I’m close enough to place my palms on his chest. His skin is warm, his nipples pebbling up beneath my touch. The hard planes of his body are no lie. “Are you a boxer?” I ask.

  He snorts. “Sometimes.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “I’ve been in a fight or two.” He covers my hand with his, then guides it downward, across his abdomen and lower. “Stroke me.”

  I wrap my fingers around the thick swell of his erection. I can’t hold back my gasp. He’s hung like a damn stallion.

  “Like what you feel?”

  “Sí.”

  Okay, maybe my introducing Spanish into our conversation is the wrong move because that’s how he responds. “Te gusta mi verga?”

  I blush, from my ears to my toes. Because I understand exactly what he’s saying, having recited many sexual phrases over and over on one of Zoey and my infrequent girl nights. We thought it’d be hysterical to read our favorite expressions over bottles of cheap red wine.

  “You do understand Spanish.”

  I shake my head. “Not really.”

  His eyes narrow, like he’s not buying my half truth. I’m not about to explain how I understand how he’s asking me if I like his cock.

  I t
ighten my hold around his beautifully thick verga and stroke hard.

  “Tell me the truth. What are you doing at Casa Bella?” he murmurs.

  He folds his arms across his chest and cocks his head. Waiting for me to what, keep working my grip along the smooth hardness of his erection? A bit one-sided, no?

  “Well?”

  There’s an edge to his tone, one that wasn’t there a second ago. I scowl and release my hold on him. He’s unpredictable. An anything-goes kind of guy—as long as it goes his way. Handsome. Arrogant. Dangerous. Far more dangerous than anyone I’ve ever met. “I’m at Casa Bella for a staycation.”

  “A . . . staycation.”

  I wince at my lie. The silly term sounds even more ridiculous coming from his lips.

  “That’s right,” I carry on, not feeling the need to explain my true intentions for being here. Let him think what he will. “It’s a phrase used to describe a vacation close to home. The opposite of an I’m-off-to-somewhere-exotic trip.”

  He snorts. “Is that the best you can do, chava?”

  My scowl intensifies. Am I that horrible of a liar? Or is this exhibitionist also a mind reader? I try to brush past him but he’s a mountain of a man and doesn’t budge.

  With narrowed eyes, he scrutinizes me like he’s trying to reach some kind of decision.

  A few uncomfortable seconds pass. “I’ll find out soon enough,” he informs me with a shrug. Before I can process what that means, he grabs me by the hips, hoists me into the air, and tosses me back onto the mattress.

  I bounce three times, thighs spread wide.

  It’s all the time he needs to crawl between them.

  “You’ll come and afterward we’ll talk some more,” he tells me, before burying his face between my thighs.

  My hips arch off the mattress as his tongue thrusts deep inside me.

  “Oh. OH!”

  Jesus, his tongue is warm, strong, and talented, as he relentlessly plunges it into my channel, stopping only to circle it around my slick walls.

  My toes curl as his fingers find my clitoris. Scissoring the tiny hood between his grasp, stroking my love button until I’m wild and wet, thrusting my hips up, feeling his cheek rub against my inner thigh as his face presses closer, his golden tongue thrusting deeper.