I have been a contract killer since I was a boy. For years I savored the fear caused by my name, the trembling at
the sight of my tattoos. The stars on my knees, the marks on my fingers, the dagger in my neck, all bespoke of
danger. If you saw my eyes, it was the last vision you’d have. I have ever been the hunter, never the prey. With her,
I am the mark and I am ready to lie down and let her capture me. Opening my small scarred heart to her brings
out my enemies. I will carry out one last hit, but if they hurt her, I will bring the world down around their ears.
I’ve been sheltered from the outside world all my life. Homeschooled and farm-raised, I’m so naive that my best
friend calls me Pollyanna. I like to believe the best in people. Nikolai is part of this new life, and he’s terrifying to
me. Not because his eyes are cold or my friend warns me away from him, but because he’s the only man that has
ever seen the real me beneath the awkwardness. With him, my heart is at risk..and also, my life.
I watch her through my bathroom window. I've placed one of my four rented chairs in here for that express
purpose. I tell myself it is not creepy, as the American girls would say, because I watch everyone. But really I watch
I cannot see everything. I've never seen her nude. I've never seen inside her shower. Smartly there is no window
there. But I can see her bedroom and her living room and beyond that, with my scope, her kitchen. I know her
schedule. When she gets up in the morning, when she returns to her apartment. If she were a mark, I could've
killed her a dozen times over by now and been in the wind.
She throws her bag onto her bed and then lies down next to it. It takes many muscles to smile, more to frown but
only a few to pull the trigger. I peer down the scope and place my crosshairs over her forehead. Puff, dead.
Barnes & Noble: TBD
Goodreads Link: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18626111-last-hit?from_search=true
Scheduled to be released December 2, 2013
I feel restless and think perhaps I should review the information I have compiled for the mark or
perhaps look at the routing pattern left by the caller from Neuchâtel. I do neither because as I begin to draw
back from the scope her motions arrest me. Her small hand with the pink tipped nails are moving over her belly.
One finger traces the tiny lace adorning the top band of her panties. My breath is suspended. Time is suspended.
I have never seen this before. She has never touched herself. Never brought a man home with her. I’d
have shot him, maybe. No, I would’ve caused some disturbance. Something. I thought her maybe an innocent
and fantasized about awakening her. But now her small fingers are delving beneath the cotton. I can see the
bumps of her knuckles as the press against the pale pink fabric. She is moving her fingers in circles.
I imagine my own fingers, much larger, darker and more rough, pressing down upon hers. My fingers
flex involuntarily at the thought of her pussy beneath my touch. I’d stroke her lightly and in circles as that is
what she appears to like. I’d move my fingers lower, beyond her clit to her hot cunt. It would be wet, dripping
wet. My fingers would be soaked and I would pause so that I could lick her sweet honey off each digit.
My cock is so hard I fear that it will break against the denim of my jeans. I draw a hand over my chest
and pinch my own nipple hard imagining it is her tiny white teeth tugging on it. I’ve broken out in a light sweat.
Her legs tense and her hand motions become more frantic. I can see her chest rise and fall rapidly and
her whole body is strained but when her release comes it is truncated. The look on her face is of frustration
rather than satisfaction. She wets her plump lips and closes her eyes. She begins again but again she is
My emotions war against each other. Unhappiness that she cannot find her own fulfillment but fierce
possessiveness arising out of an idea I’ve tried to suppress. In my mind, only I can bring her to orgasm and
release. I can teach her to touch herself in a way that will be pleasurable and satisfying.
I would not start with her pussy. No, the skin is the largest sex organ. I would stroke my hands over
every inch, starting from her forehead. My lips and fingers would smooth away any furrows. My hands would
encircle her neck and sweep down over her shoulders to her fine wrists.
I’d rub my body over hers so that she smelled of me. When she walked on campus, other men would
stay away recognizing she was marked as my own. Belonging to Nikolai. Maybe I would tattoo it around her
neck like a collar.
Swinging my scope over to room 524, I flip on my night vision goggles. I can only see the
outline of her body. It is leaving the apartment and she appears to have a basket with her. I track her
down to the basement laundry. When I first walked the building, I noted the basement laundry facility.
It was dank and musty with only a few lights and disgusting floor. 524 should not have to clean her
clothes down there. Someone should clean her clothes for her but I knew she could not afford that.
Her refrigerator held few items and when she did eat, which seemed far too rare for my own peace of
mind, she ate noodles and other cheap food stuffs. Her roommate did not make any more money
either. The two of them were poor and so obviously prey it is a miracle that they've survived on their
own to make it to adulthood. The one male in their lives is worthless.
I watch again as her outlined form leans over the washing machine. She places her clothes
inside and then leaves. She returns to her apartment and returns to her bedroom. It is too dark for me
to tell what she is doing in there. Is she touching herself again? Is she bringing herself off? I think she
may be reading a book. I watch her and the time that passes is meaningless. Nothing is more
interesting to me that watching her, even if it is just the outline of her form. I should be doing so many
other things. Researching my potential mark in Seattle. Determining my next step with Mr. Brown.
Instead I am mesmerized by her.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Jen Frederick lives with her husband, child, and one rambunctious dog. She's been reading stories all her life
but never imagined writing one of her own. Jen loves to hear from readers so drop her a line at
Author Jessica Claire
This is a pen name for Jill Myles.
Jill Myles has been an incurable romantic since childhood. She reads all the 'naughty parts' of books first,
looks for a dirty joke in just about everything, and thinks to this day that the Little House on the Prairie
books should have been steamier.
After devouring hundreds of paperback romances, mythology books, and archaeological tomes, she decided
to write a few books of her own - stories with a wild adventure, sharp banter, and lots of super-sexy situations. She prefers her heroes alpha and half-dressed, her heroines witty, and she loves nothing more
than watching them overcome adversity to fall into bed together.
Signed set of Jessica Clare BlueBonnet series published by Berkley.
The Care and Feeding of the Alpha Male
The Girl's Guide to Manhunting
The Expert's Guide to Driving a Man Wild
Signed set of Woodlands books with dog tag set.
Signed copy of last Hit.
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