Just One More Night by Caitlin Crews (ereader iphone txt) 📕

on this side of the Atlantic because trainers were frowned upon for nightlife purposes in so many European countries.

She had been fully aware that he had that gun tucked in the small of his back. But looking at him, not only did she also know that his hands were weapons all by themselves—not to mention the feet that she’d seen in action with her own eyes—but that he likely had other things stashed around on his body, as well.

His profession seemed pretty clear.

I’m not going to kill you, he had said in that accented voice of his that lit the night on fire, low and gravely with that impossible blue gaze behind it.

Or maybe the fire was only in her, making her wet and hot and something too close to desperate.

When she had never been desperate in her life.

She had tipped her head slightly to one side as she regarded him. You sound surprised.

I should have killed you the moment I saw you. His voice was matter-of-fact, suggesting that roaming about killing people was an ordinary occurrence for him, and yet his hand was still on her arm and she’d felt the heat of his grip. And she still hadn’t been afraid. That’s what happens when foolish girls stumble into business meetings in the wrong part of town. Would anyone have missed you?

Not tonight. Why had she said that? She might as well have knelt right down again and invited him to use that gun of his. Worse yet, she had kept talking. It was something about that faintly arrested look on his face, like he didn’t understand what he was doing, either. It was that grip on her arm. It was her certain knowledge that something had happened between them in that alley. Eventually, people back home would miss me, but they wouldn’t know where to look. Most people think I’m still in Croatia.

He had gripped her arm harder, though not hard enough to hurt. He’d pulled her closer to him then, his poet’s eyes blazing with a distinctly unpoetic fire as he’d gazed down at her—and she still hadn’t been afraid.

She’d been exhilarated.

I fucked up my life for you, he’d gritted out at her. I don’t ever fuck up my life. For anyone. The kind of life I have, fuck it up too much and you lose it.

Indy hadn’t understood anything that was happening. All she’d known was that it was happening to both of them—and it was as intense as it was impossible.

They should never have met. She should already have been a statistic.

None of this should have been happening, but she’d been wearing red and he was clearly a wolf and somehow, it had all made sense. She had felt the sense of it everywhere, like fate.

Indy had reached up with her fingers and spread them over those beautiful lips of his.

Careful, he’d warned her.

But Indy had only smiled. Too late, she’d said.

Then she’d surged up on her toes and kissed him, like the dark little fairytale she’d always wanted to come true at last.

CHAPTER TWO

SITTING IN THIS bustling café in Prague all this time later, Indy could not only remember how it had felt to kiss him like that.

She could feel it still.

Kissing him on that deserted street in Budapest had been foolhardy at best. She’d had two years to question her behavior, and she had. Oh, she had.

But she couldn’t regret it.

Kissing him had been like nothing she’d ever experienced before.

It was a shock—and it was no fairytale.

Because he’d kissed her back and there was nothing least bit tame about him. His lips alone were a revelation. He didn’t use his hands to hold her head in place, because he’d managed to do that with his mouth alone.

And Indy had ignited.

She’d melted into him so that her nipples, already so hard and so greedy, were crushed against that stone chest of his.

He’d angled his jaw and thrust his tongue against hers and she’d come from that alone in a shimmering, shuddering rush.

He’d torn his mouth from hers, muttering filthy-sounding curses in languages she couldn’t identify.

Damn you, he said then, his English sounding tame in comparison.

She knew, somehow, that he wasn’t cursing her. Not specifically.

Then he’d picked her up, swinging her into his arms while she still had all those delicious waves of pleasure moving through her. She had only been half-aware at that point. He’d carried her down the street to a dark and gleaming SUV waiting at the curb and then he’d climbed inside, pulling her over his lap as he went.

I’m surprised you can park here, she’d murmured while he tossed his gun in the glove box, because she’d been loopy and her clit had still been pulsing and she felt like maybe what had actually happened was that she had died. That this had all been some kind of extended death scene in her head. It was the only thing that made sense. I’m surprised no one stole this while you were off...doing whatever you do.

She’d been straddling him and that had meant she could look down into that astonishingly beautiful face of his and see it when something like amusement flickered there.

Nobody would dare steal from me, he told her.

Then his hand was on the nape of her neck and he’d brought her face down to his, so he could take her mouth once more.

And Indy stopped worrying about parking.

He’d shoved her skirt up and out of his way, wrapping his big hands around her thighs to pull them even further apart so she was mashed down against the thick bulge of his cock, a glory against her clit. And his fingers had slid beneath her thong in the back as he’d skated past her ass to find her wet folds. He’d opened her, then penetrated her with one finger.

Then another, finding her wet and hot and crazy for him, writhing to get even closer to him—his cock, his fingers, whatever worked.

He’d let out a long spate of swear