Saved By The Hitman: An Instalove Possessive Age Gap Romance

by Flora Ferrari

  And then he finds out that I have nothing to offer him. I’ve got no idea what to do. I’m just a silly naïve—

  Rebel drops her toy and barks when two loud knocks come at the door. Nobody ever knocks on the door, which is why she lets her barks fly. If people need me, they text, call or press the apartment buzzer.

  I stand up from the couch and walk toward the door, muttering soothing words to Rebel as she growls protectively from the floor, making her voice deep as though she wants to trick the knockers into thinking she’s a Rottweiler.

  “Who is it?” I say.

  The crazy idea that it’s Jett has my heart hammering in my chest, heartbeat thundering through me, touching every part of me and setting my skin alight.

  “It’s the super,” a gruff voice says. “We need you to come out here, ma’am. We’ve had reports of a gas leak.”

  My blood runs cold for a moment at the lie. The super-attendant for the building is a woman named Rose. She’s the one who helped me unclog the garbage disposal a few weeks ago. But then again, maybe it’s not a lie, just a confusing way to state something. Maybe Rose is on a break or something.

  “A gas leak?” I murmur, sniffing the air, smelling nothing but the vanilla scented candles with which I fill the apartment with. “That’s terrible.”

  “Yes, it is,” the man growls, sounding impatient. “So please open the door.”

  Something quivers through me, a warning firing in my mind, pleading with me not to open the door, not to even think about opening the door.

  “Where’s the regular super?” I ask, trying to stop my voice from trembling.

  Fear is spiking through me with more and more intensity each moment. I don’t know if it’s a rational fear, or if maybe I’m going a little crazy.

  All I know for sure is that the man on the other side of the door is causing my warning signals to fire urgently through my mind, blaring loudly, deafening.

  “He’s on a break,” a second man snarls.

  He, he, he.

  But Rose is a woman.

  “Oh,” I say, trying to remember where I left my cellphone.

  I think it’s on my bedside table, but I was so caught up in playing with Rebel that I can’t remember. I start to back away from the door as slowly as I can, wincing every time my footsteps cause the floorboards to whine and creak.

  An unfair and cruel sentiment rises inside of me with each whining noise.

  This wouldn’t happen if you were skinny, an inner voice cuts.

  I hate it. I push it down.

  It’s not fair that even now when everything inside of me should be focused on the possible danger of these strange, suspicious men, that my mind would still toss up such self-hate.

  “Miss?” the first man calls and then raises his voice even louder. “Miss, are you there?”

  “Fuck this,” a second man snarls.

  I can’t tell if I scream or if the door bashes inward first, or at the same time. But suddenly the air is alive with noise, my screams rising over the wooden cracking of the door, the whining of the hinges as they thunder inwards and the first man steps into my apartment.

  Rebel stands in front of me, her tiny tail pricked up aggressively, barking at the men in the deepest voice she can muster.

  The men are dressed from head to foot in black, hoodies and jeans, and chunky boots. They’ve got hoods pulled over their heads, right down to their eyes, and ski scarves pulled up over their noses.

  Only their eyes are visible, flinty, watching my every movement as though I’m an animal and they’re judging the best way to trap me.

  Then the man in front – tall, thick, clearly the leader – takes a coil of wire from his pocket.

  It’s the matter of fact way he does it that sends me hurtling to the bedroom. He removes it calmly, as though the destination of wrapping it around my throat and choking the life out of me has already been reached, and all the struggle in between is just empty noise.

  I run to the bedroom, to the bedside table.

  Yes, my phone is here.

  I grab it and fumble for the Emergency Services icon.

  Rebel has leaped onto the bed, as though by gaining a few feet in height she can better intimidate the men. She lets loose with a series of frantic yaps, filling the room with the noise, over and over.

  The first man enters the room slowly. His scarf twitches. I think he’s smiling.

  He’s already uncoiled the wire at some point between the entrance and the bedroom, holding two wooden grips in each gloved hand now, approaching me inch by torturous inch.

  “Don’t fight it,” he says. “It’s already over.”

  “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

  “There’s a man in my—”

  The man leaps forward like a force of nature, aiming the wire at my neck, clearly intending to wrap it around me and choke me. Rebel lets out a scratchy, cough-like yap and then leaps from the bed, clamping her tiny jaw around the man’s calf muscle.

  “Ah, little shit,” he growls and then turns as if to kick my tiny fragile dog with his boot.

  I drop my phone, instinctively reaching out for Rebel. One swipe of his leg and this man could crush her tiny fragile skull.

  “Stop.”

  The voice isn’t loud, but it’s full of power, the sort of voice that makes people listen despite what they’re doing. The man pauses and I take my chance, darting forward and grabbing Rebel, lifting her off the ground and cradling her trembling, anxious body to my chest.

  “Stop now, or I’ll cut this bastard open. That’s your final warning.”

  I look past the masked man to the doorway.

  Jett.

  He’s still wearing his tuxedo, his face a mask of calm control.

  He’s got the second masked man’s arm twisted up behind his back and a long, nasty looking blade primed less than an inch from his throat, gripping it tightly so that his forearm muscles bulge even in the tuxedo jacket. It’s easy to imagine him driving the blade with all the giant power of his body, to imagine the destruction it would cause on the masked man.

  “Fuck,” the first masked man sighs, turning slowly.

  “Fuck indeed,” Jett smirks. “Step aside. The girl and the dog are coming with me.”

  “You think they won’t send more, Jett? You’re fucked. We’ll hunt you into the grave. You know that. One man can’t stand up to an army.”

  “We’ll see about that. Now, do as you’re fucking told.”

  He must twist his prisoner’s arm even more, because he lets out an animal whine and screams, “Do it, Markus, fuck, do it.”

  “Don’t use my name, you fucking idiot,” the man called Markus snarls.

  “Come on, Juliana,” Jett says, his eyes flitting to me, those stark blues that seemed to stare through me at the party. “You’re safe now. These bastards know better than to test my patience.”

  I glance at the masked man, who’s inched to the edge of the room, his back pressed against the wall. But he’s still got that garroting wire in his hands.

  Jett must see me looking. He nods briefly.

  “Drop the wire and lie on the floor,” he commands.

  “You’ve got to be kidding—”

  Jett’s prisoner lets out a hollow yelp of pure agony at the snap noise.

  “He’s still got nine fingers left,” Jett snarls. “I can do this all damn night. Move. Now.”

  The man drops the wire, grumbling something under his breath, and then falls heavily to his knees. He curses quietly as I carry Rebel past him, hardly believing that this is real.

  I walk into the hallway and then Jett roughly pushes the man into my bedroom, shutting the door behind them. He springs over to my couch – moving so fast for a man of his size it’s difficult to comprehend – and lifts it up as though it weighs nothing.

  He wedges it against the doorway and then takes my hand.

  His touch is as fire-hot as I remember, triggering out-of-place emotions to surge throu
gh me considering the circumstances.

  I want him. I want his babies. I want to be his.

  Not now, I warn myself. Heck, not ever.

  “Come on,” Jett snarls. “I’m getting you out of here.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Jett

  I drive through the night, the city still flooded with the artificial light of diners and convenience stores and clubs and apartment windows.

  Juliana sits beside me in the same body hugging clothes she was wearing at the ball. Or maybe the clothes don’t hug her body. Maybe I just see her form pressing through the fabric, calling to me in a primal howl, telling me that this woman is worth the risk and the danger of going to war.

  Even now – when I should be focused on the job – I have to squeeze the steering wheel hard to stop myself from reaching over and grabbing onto those full thighs of hers.

  I’d drag my hand roughly up, making her feel every passion filled inch of my course to her sex, and then I’d tickle and rub and palm until she’s good and wet for me, and then – when she’s soaked, when she’s flooded and needy – I’d bend her over and slam into her eager cunt.

  Fuck, I need to focus.

  Being around her clouds my thoughts like nothing else ever has.

  I’m glad she’s got her dog in her lap, meaning I can’t act on these desires.

  “It’s okay, girl,” Juliana whispers, rubbing her hand over her dog’s ear, over and over like some sort of meditation. “Jett, what’s happening? Why did those men want to … Oh, God …”

  She coughs back a sob, but then it shatters somewhere deep in her throat. She lets it out, tears glinting brightly in the moonlight on her cheeks, leaning down to better hug her dog.

  I’m stunned when I reach over and touch her shoulder, giving her what little comfort I can offer. I’ve never known how to soothe crying women.

  Shit, I’ve never wanted to.

  But Juliana is my woman, and no bastard should make my woman cry.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I tell her firmly. “I’m going to protect you. I swear. I swear on my goddamned life.”

  “But why?” she blurts. “I don’t understand any of this. Where are we even going?”

  “Someplace safe,” I tell her. “Someplace we can lie low for the night. While we figure out what the fuck we’re going to do.”

  “Please explain, Jett,” she sobs.

  I must be one sick bastard – or maybe it’s just how irresistible she is – but when she sobs, it causes her breasts to jiggle up and down.

  It drives me insane, how fleshy and full they are, bouncing the same way they will when I drive my manhood up between her desire soaked thighs.

  I turn my gaze back to the road when the light changes color, making my way to the dockyard where my safe house is, the one I’ve never told anybody about. I pray it hasn’t been compromised.

  “Jett?” she snaps, fierceness entering her sobbing voice.

  I sigh grimly.

  I’ve never talked about my business with a civilian before. But she’s not just anybody.

  She’s going to give birth to my children one day. Those round palm-me-now breasts of hers are going to swell with milk, her nipples bursting with it, and she’s going to feed our children … and then feed me, her man, the person who gets to do with her whatever the fuck I feel like.

  I’ll drink her milk and suck her horny nipples until she’s creaming from her pussy and her tits at the same time, a river of white lust squirting from her, and then I’ll taste the come between her legs and spit it onto her milk-slick breasts.

  Fuck, she’s got my mind going to places I never dreamed of.

  It’s like she’s woken up the Viking in me, the ancient warrior, the caveman who’d bash another man’s head in with a rock to protect his woman and his cave and his kin and the life they have together.

  “Jett?” she whispers. “Please.”

  Please.

  The way she says it goes right to my manhood, flooding it with even more rock-hardness, which I would’ve thought was impossible.

  Please, fuck me like your personal sex toy, I imagine her moaning, massaging those bountiful tits. Please use me any way you want.

  I’ve been as hard as stone ever since I climbed into the car, smelled her sweat and her perfume and her just-Juliana scents, her womb beneath it all, screaming at me to pull over and fuck her roughly and possessively until her hole is bursting with my seed until she has no goddamned choice but to get pregnant.

  “Okay,” I sigh darkly. “I’m a hitman, Juliana.”

  “Wait, that wasn’t a joke at the party?”

  “No, it wasn’t a joke. I’m a hitman and tonight was supposed to be my last job. The way it normally works, I’m hired to kill the scumbags of this world, the killers, the rapists, the child molesters, the evil motherfuckers who don’t deserve life. But tonight was different. They wanted me to kill you.”

  “K-kill me?” she gasps.

  “Yes,” I growl.

  “But you wouldn’t,” she says.

  “Of course I wouldn’t,” I snap. “I don’t kill women. I don’t kill the innocent.”

  She lets her head fall back, slowing her breathing. I can already read her so well, my woman, my property. She’s trying to calm herself down before we go on with this conversation. It’s all too much for her to take.

  A few hours ago she was a party planner.

  Now she’s a target.

  “But why?” she says after several minutes of silent driving.

  The night has gotten darker now as we move to the edge of the city, toward the dockyard, less civilization this far from the center.

  “I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “The men I’m contracted to kill have usually done something bad like I said before. I can’t think why they’d want me to take you out.”

  “You said it was your last job,” she murmurs.

  “Yes.”

  “And back there, that man said they’re going to come after you, too.”

  “Yes.”

  She bites her lip.

  I don’t think she has any idea how sexy she looks when she does that, her cheeks all red from crying, making her look vivacious and filled with vitality. She bites it the same way she’s going to when I slip my fingers into her wet hole, deeper, and deeper, moving them in circles to ply the pleasure out of her.

  I grind my teeth from side to side. The power she has over me is truly massive and terrifying.

  And yet I don’t want to fight it.

  I can’t fight it.

  I need her, every single part of her, those full lips made for sucking my throbbing dick, those breasts made for milking and grabbing and pleasing, those thighs made for biting, and most of all that sweet hole made for pumping full of my boiling hungry seed.

  “This is so crazy,” she murmurs.

  “Are you scared?” I ask.

  Her mouth falls open and she tilts her head at me.

  “Um, yeah. Of course. What sort of question is that?”

  “No,” I say. “I meant, are you scared of me, Juliana?”

  She pauses and gives the question real thought. She stares at me for long moments, her hands moving endlessly over her dog’s fur, comforting herself and the Chihuahua at the same time.

  “No,” she gasps. “I’m not. Does that make me crazy?”

  “It means you trust me,” I tell her firmly. “And that’s good. You should trust me. Because I’ll never lie to you, Juliana. Never. I told you the truth when I said I’ve only ever killed bad men. Do you believe me?”

  “Yes,” she murmurs, sweetly, a moan in her voice.

  If I don’t get inside this woman, I’m going to turn feral.

  I ache with the need for her.

  I focus on driving toward the entrance of the dockyard. This is the abandoned section, which suits me just fine. The gate has been vandalized, jammed open, meaning I can drive right through. I remember when I first built my safe house here, a decade ago
now, paying off the dockworkers to keep quiet and help me with its construction.

  I drive through the gate and down the waterfront, the waves lapping to our right, reflecting the moon and the stars back up at the sky.

  “You need to tell me your story, Jett,” Juliana whispers. “How you became a hitman, why you became a hitman … Your life before we met. I want to know. I want to know you.”

  I chuckle, shaking my head.

  “What?” she says, the shadow of a sassy smile on her lips. “Why are you laughing?”

  “It’s just that normally if a woman said some shit like that to me, I’d run a mile. But with you, Juliana, I don’t feel that urge.”

  “And that’s funny?”

  “Yeah,” I smirk. “Because it turns out I’m not as cold as I thought I was.”

  She smiles fully now, a glorious display stretching across her face, the sort of brave smile that will instill our children with courage and hope, and love.

  “So, what’s your story?” she says.

  “Just like that?” I chuckle. “You want me to tell you my whole life story?”

  “Well, the highlights,” she says, still smiling despite everything.

  On a whim, I reach over and stroke my hand along her cheek, feeling the heat where the tears have dried.

  “I’ll tell you if you agree to something for me,” I growl.

  “What?” she whispers, twitching as though she doesn’t know whether to move toward or away from my touch.

  “No, Juliana,” I growl. “You don’t get to ask what. You just have to agree. Whatever I want, you’ll do it. Do you understand?”

  She lets out a panting breath, the sort of noise she needs to be careful making around me. The base of my manhood aches and I’m so stiff my length is pressing against the inside of my pants urgently, as though any moment I’m going to explode and tear the zipper in half.

  “Okay,” she whispers. “I’ll do whatever you want me to, Jett.”

  “Good girl,” I growl, driving into the warehouse.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Juliana

  I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, expecting to wake up on my bed any second now. I felt like we were in a hazy dream all night, but it became super surreal when we drove into the warehouse, into a garage elevator, and then went down and down and came here, to an underground apartment.